


The Case of Misconstruct

by Ldigo



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Gen, Getting Together, Gotham Is A Playground, M/M, Murder, Murder Mystery, Non-Chronological, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:07:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 61,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22562959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ldigo/pseuds/Ldigo
Summary: Jim genuinely believed that all of this was over now. After all, Jerome fell from the roof and wasn’t going to wake up any time soon (or even at all).In hindsight, he should have known better than that.
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska & Jerome Valeska, Jeremiah Valeska/Jerome Valeska
Comments: 73
Kudos: 117





	1. Prologue

First time is always special, they say. Something inevitably changes inside you the moment you go through with it, they say. Something is lost when fantasy becomes reality, they add.

They lie.

He most definitely doesn’t feel any different than before, not really. Somewhat betrayed, he reaches deeply inside himself, searching for any sign of that proclaimed change, and finds none of it. Nothing at all bar satisfaction from a job well done.

The job in question is not spectacular at all. It’s simple. Just a message to be delivered, nothing more and nothing less. He wouldn’t want to warrant any attention besides what’s strictly necessary, now would he?

The time for that will surely come, but not yet. For now he is content to step away and patiently observe, planning his next move. It’s not like he’s got any faith in police department left, not to mention his rather intimate knowledge of its inner workings, but you can never be too careful in a pursuit such as this one. Who knows when a lucky pig or a bystander might show up at an inappropriate time and get away with it, after all.

And moreover, there is no such thing as a safeguard against stupid unfortunate mistakes which bite you in the ass when you least expect it. He now knows better than to believe otherwise.

**JVJVJV**

Jim remembers that fateful day on the roof. The chase, the bullets sent in Jerome’s hand and stomach, everything. He remembers his childish thoughts back then, filled with relief over the fact that it’s over, that the evil is gone for good. Dear Lord, just how stupid he can get at times? Of course it wasn’t over.

He also remembers the expression on remaining Valeska’s face; tear-stricken, almost crestfallen in a way. A fitting contradiction for such a contradicting, twisted person, he supposes. Not that he knew anything of the truths he now harbors at the time when it still mattered, of course.

He often wonders whether he could make a difference back then or not, knowing what he does now. Probably even not. Both Valeska twins have always been too smart for his liking. Jeremiah would have definitely figured something out if he tried to stop him, he reckons. Besides, it’s not like Jim could possibly press charges against him before the terrorist attacks, what with childhood traumas and gut feelings being somewhat questionable evidence of someone’s misdeeds these days and all. No judge in all 50 states would accept it, loyal to police force or not.

By the time he had solid evidence (metaphorically speaking, of course, as said evidence was literally blowing up in everyones’ faces), Jeremiah miraculously escaped custody. And so the sick bastard remained nowhere to be found up until now, just as his slippery fucker of a brother, leaving Jim to sort out their gaudy messes. Add on top of that damn honest to god serial killer on the loose, and you’ll get a very, _very_ worn out Capitain of GCPD.

Come to think about it, Jim is actually rather surprised he hasn’t had a displeasure to encounter a fucking serial murderer in this Sodom of a city during all his years on duty until now.

Well, the Universe had apparently decided to remedy that and presented him with this missing opportunity. It must be sorely disappointed then, because he is no closer to catching the perp than all those months ago, when he received a call about first victim and foolishly thought it to be his highest priority.

The following months, constructed of sleepless nights, poorly brewed coffee, fruitless chases all over the city and consistently nagging feeling that something big is going on, bad omen of sorts, taught him better than that. The gut feeling evaporated after Jeremiah’s grand reveal, but other three components only grew out of any semblance of proportion whatsoever.

And to think that not long ago he in all seriousness believed bad times to be over. Ha.

Anyway, back on track. That day on the roof, the turning point. Jerome miraculously survived multiple bullet wounds and the fall from fucking _nine-story building_.

Things just went downhill from there onwards.

Of course someone from the hospital would snitch the precious information about Jerome’s continuous existence to the press, despite the utmost secrecy of the whole ordeal. Why wouldn’t they? It wasn’t like any organization in Gotham had been made to keep secrets. Besides, it was probably worth their several months’ salary. Rather appealing perspective for almost anyone with half a brain and dubious moral standing. In other words, almost anyone, period.

The public expectedly was in uproar. Demonstrations, acts of vandalism, even a few attempts to break in the warded hospital wing where Valeska was kept at the time. To finish him off, Jim supposed.

Not that he could blame those people, what with his — _officer’s of the law_ — own hesitation back on that damn roof.

The fact that Jerome was in quite possibly eternal coma didn’t help any, it seemed. At least, not at first. Weeks flew by, however, allowing people to calm down and just breath. The tension dissipated.

And then the first body showed up.

Back then it was simple, really. Nothing flashy or noticeable, so unlike the others that followed close by with ever increasing frequency.

He would have been first to dismiss that first body as yet one more robbery gone wrong or something, if not for a few details. The details that changed everything, giving way to concern. Not that noticeable at first, of course.

Some poor kid with facial features resembling those of the infamous ginger psychopath got murdered in a fit of rage after the comatose state of said psychopath had been officially confirmed. Tragic, yes, but nothing too alarming.

However, after the first one was the second, then the third, and so on. The press caught on and called it a serial. After all, you didn’t have to be genius to trace the pattern.

On top of that, they had a definite signature. Each and every body sported scars on their faces, as if the perp was trying to extend the resemblance as best as it was possible. Done postmortem, to everyone’s relief.

Later guys weren’t that lucky to die peacefully, though.

And as body count haphazardly grew, so did the intricacy of each work, more and more resembling some bizarre form of art with every fresh corpse. Disturbing, sick, of course, but art nonetheless.

It was as though the murderer found a real taste for it. It no longer remained just about efficiently driving their point home, no. They became an artist, and Jerome-lookalikes — their canvases. This smooth transformation was (and still is, truth be told) one of the most horrific things Jim has encountered in his life.

At least now he’s got the first real chance in months to capture either Jerome or Jeremiah (or even _both_ , but that has to be wishful thinking on his part). If everything goes according to plan — “Come on, be realistic,” he derogatory tells himself, receiving a couple of concerned glances from his coworkers — or as close to it as it gets, then he’ll hopefully be able to focus more on their reclusive serial killer for a short while.

Until the remaining twin blasts out his counterpart in order to further their never ending game of sick wits, that is. Honestly, he is not even sure they use that weak excuse of mutual hate themselves at this point, what with all those almost-favors to each other and identical insane laughter, disgustingly joyous and lively. He won’t stop hearing it in his nightmares til the day he dies, Jim believes. And even then he’ll probably just take it to the grave. Must be one of cruelest punishments in Hell.

With a shudder he returns back from torturous reminiscing. Today is the day he might possibly bring at least some of this madness to end, he has to focus on that. Constant vigilance and no stray thoughts distracting him from his purpose.

After all, today is _The Day_.


	2. I

Jim was about to head home when the phone rang. He refused to pick up at first — his shift had long since ended, and the amount of work overload for these past couple weeks had taken it’s tall even on such a resilient workaholic as himself.

Alas, the shrill sound went on and on, demanding, unrepentant, somewhat ominous. Dread settled heavy in his stomach.

Despite his intuition, or gut feeling, or fucking animal instincts inherited from whole humankind’s predecessors, or whatever it was that screamed at him to not pick up, go home and pretend it never happened, he hesitantly reached for the phone. Just as his fingers brushed the device, insistent sound stopped. Jim sagged with relief, still not knowing what it was that triggered him so, but nonetheless grateful for the reprieve.

And then his cell rang.

“Fuck, this must be serious,” he muttered to himself, picking up. Not just anyone would interrupt his sparse free time unless the cause was urgent.

His assumptions proved correct when Harper’s voice cut his absentminded greetings short.

“Captain, I believe you should see this. A homicide, forensic team is already called in,” she said with uneasiness thick in undertones.

“What’s so peculiar about it, Harper?” he asked, latching the gun holster and grabbing his coat on the way out.

“I’m sorry, but you better see for yourself. Don’t want to cloud your judgement with my ideas.”

“Alright. Send me the address,” he relented, stiffening. Unidentifiable feeling was twisting his stomach into tight knots.

“Right away, Captain,” she replied, voice more composed than before, and hung up. A handful of seconds later there was a sound of incoming message. He checked the contents and typed the address (some place near the docks) into GPS, hitting the ignition in his car.

**JVJVJV**

The destination turned out to be a rundown warehouse of sorts, the area encircled in police tape. Nothing remotely unusual there, so the reason for Harper’s insistence remained unclear as of yet.

The officer in question must have spotted him somehow, because no sooner had he left the vehicle than she showed up and gestured for him to follow her. He complied.

“The victim is a Caucasian male, early to mid twenties, ID negative. Cause of death is stab wound in carotid artery, precise and instant. The perp sure seems to know their way around knives. Skin discoloration and rigor mortis places the time of death somewhere around midnight a night ago, the expert promises more specifics after proper examination. He believes he noticed something interesting, I don’t exactly get it-“

“And what in all of this warrants my presence?” he interrupted, voice harsher than intended. Harper visibly halted on the spot, but quickly got over herself and jerked her chin up high, unrepentant.

“There are... _other_ wounds. Rather disconcerting ones. You’ll understand when you see the body, Captain.”

Meanwhile they reached the entrance and crossed it. The body lay splayed a few feet away, any details concealed by the distance.

A forensic expert eagerly rushed to them, pulling off his gloves. He started to speak almost from the opposite corner of the room, sounding genuinely excited. God, no wonder he hadn’t suspected a thing about Nygma until the paranoid psycho basically outed himself; they are all morbid sick bastards, the lot of them.

“-and so it must be some sort of tranquilizer or CNS depressant, albeit to my knowledge there’s nothing with similar effects out in the field. Intriguing, isn’t it?” the expert ranted on, seemingly delighted to have such an apt listener. In truth, Jim long since perfected the skill of spacing out and resurfacing only when relevant, all the while maintaining a mask of rapt attention on his face. Strike their ego and they won’t turn into second Nygma out of spite and offense for being unappreciated.

“Yes, it’s very interesting, but what about his face?” Harper exclaimed impatiently.

“What about it?” the expert frowned, displeased with her interruption right in the middle of his rant. ”As I said, deep cuts along the face contour, around both eyes and mouth, all done postmortem. There’s no mystery to it.”

“Cuts on his face?” Jim slowly repeated, as though unsure about what he’d heard. Something uneasy began nagging at the back of his mind, something he desperately didn’t wish to believe.

He reached the body in few firm strides, displaying confidence he didn’t feel.

Of course, there it was, almost a mirror image of Jerome Valeska after his death at Theo Galavan’s hands, sans that morbid smile. For a moment his heart stopped, and then he stumbled in desperate search for his cell, fingers trembling while typing down the right number.

The call was picked up almost instantly.

“Captain Gordon? Is something the matter?” familiar voice asked.

“You alive,” Jim blurted out without thinking, relief blossoming in his chest.

“Excuse me?” Jeremiah Valeska said incredulously, uncomprehending. He quieted for a second or two, and then something clicked almost audibly, and he went on, sounding frightened. “What happened? Is he awake? He escaped and is coming for me? How-“

“No, calm down, it’s nothing like that. Just a homicide, and a victim looks quite similar to you. Sorry for disturbance.”

“Wait. Tell me about it. Did you catch the killer? You think it might be related to Jerome?”

“It definitely is. However, I’m afraid I can’t reveal the details of ongoing investigation even to you.”

“...I understand,” Jeremiah replied after a pause, trying to conceal his disappointment. “Thank you for your concern and good luck with your lead.”

“There’s no-“ Jim began, but stopped basically mid-word, hearing that his interlocutor has hung up the phone. He stared at it for a moment.

“Does he really believe I’d hide from him something that crucial when his life might be at stake?” he asked aloud, addressing nobody in particular. Harper looked at him strangely, but no answer came.

**JVJVJV**

“So you’re saying we’ve got nothing,” he stated almost a week later. “No fingerprints, hair or any other biological evidence, no discernible shoe prints, zero eyewitnesses, no certain time of abduction. Unidentifiable chemical cocktail in victim’s blood, presumably tranquilizer, either injected or inhaled. Even time of death is unclear due to said chemicals.”

“Well... yes,” the forensic expert reluctantly admitted. “But it gives us the reason to suspect that the perp is a professional chemist or at least someone with great knowledge in the field and vast resources. And they’re also apt at wielding cold weapons and have an adequate idea of human physiology and at least basic surgical training — all the wounds inflicted are sure and precise, must be from experience. Probably medical doctor.”

“It doesn’t help any. This city is a virtual trove of talents, we might very well confirm nothing from the above when we catch them. Harper, is the list ready?”

“Yes, Captain. I’ve composed the list of all Jerome’s victims’ family members, age and occupation mostly included. I need some more time for checking on possibility of any of them displaying aforementioned talents, though.”

“Good. Hurry along, I believe we are going to hear from them again. We have to do our best to stop the perp before it happens.”

“But why now, Jim? It’s been more than a month since someone snitched the info, and we confirmed it not long after.” Harvey asked.

“The last protests died out several days before the body showed up. Perhaps the perp believed it would be enough at first.”

“Enough? You don’t think they are somehow trying to convince us to turn off Jerome’s life support system, do you?”

“You disagree?”

Harvey huffed, incredulous.

“That’s just sick! Surely there’re better ways to convey such messages than this. Besides, it’s not like someone with ‘vast resources’ would be unable to breach the hospital security and finish Jerome off themselves. Or better yet, attack the convoy on the way to Arkham and stop the bastard once and for all. Not to mention, security measures in there are laughable. Anyone can easily get in and out without being seen once.”

“How do you know they didn’t try? Jerome isn’t kept in medical wing now, is he?” Jim retorted to the last part, ignoring all the other questions. Come to think of it, he didn’t really have a solid answer to any of that.

“Maybe... maybe they didn’t want innocent officers on duty to get hurt?” Harper asked, sounding unsure of herself. Nobody in the office deigned it with an answer, except for Harvey’s snort.

Nevertheless, there was something in her words that sounded right. Jim repeated it twice in his head, and then a giant light bulb went off almost literally.

“Of course!” he exclaimed. “On duty, you said. That’s it. They can’t go on a vigilante rampage, because they believe in the system, in justice served in court. They saw the protests and demonstrations as simple manifestation of civil society, basically the purest form of democracy, and waited patiently for the authorities to react accordingly. It never happened, so they chose to switch tactics, but the main goal is still making us to do it ‘rightfully’ or something. And until then, they are not about to stop.”

“Shit. It... makes sense,” Harvey said after a pause. “In a very fucked up way, but still. Killing Jerome themselves wouldn’t be the same for them. A murder instead of death sentence, as if he didn’t wholly deserved it — no matter what the public would say.”

“Exactly. I’m pretty sure it must be something along these lines.”

“Sir... Maybe we’ll comply then? Just one criminal instead of who knows how many innocents? Seems fair game to me,” Harper looked ashamed of her own words, but no less determined. Jim turned his gaze towards the lead forensic expert, surprised that he wasn’t the one who suggested it, and found the man genuinely affronted, indignant even.

 _Probably don’t want to miss the encounter with whoever brew this concoction in vic’s veins,_ Jim thought almost viciously, not trusting the expert as far as he could throw him.

“Out of the question,” he replied aloud with all the certainty he was able to muster, the tone of his voice leaving no room for argument. “We _do not_ negotiate with terrorists, Officer Harper!”

She opened her mouth, ready to agree or otherwise, but no words came forth; right at that very moment the door bursted open, and some kid — around Harper’s age, probably — swayed in the doorframe upon sudden impact.

“Captain, there’s another body with scars on the face in Narrows,” he blurted, out of breath.

“Fuck,” Harvey voiced the only thought on the forefront of Jim’s mind, hurriedly springing on his feet.


	3. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold a decent enough chapter (finally).  
> I hope the timeline isn’t too confusing. The events in chapters follow up to the second part of prologue, alternating between Jim’s perspective and our eluding serial killer’s (you’ll see at least two more of those as the story unfolds). The parts dedicated to Jim will continue being written in past tense up until the point where we catch up with the prologue.  
> Now, enough of my ramblings. Enjoy (and expect soon update)

He carves the subject’s face absentmindedly, almost distractedly; his thoughts elsewhere. Simultaneously tracking his surroundings for any sign of danger (however close to being impossible, the chance still remains) and musing over his latest lapse in judgment. It’s not as though he has anything better to do, anyway.

With his first subject he wanted the police to squirm, yes, but not quite as much. In fact, he hasn’t anticipated such ruckus and nearly top priority being given to his case — god, _his case!_ — at all.

He should have known better than that. It’s not as though he doesn’t have any idea about sheer incompetence of the force in general, after all. The drugs he used clearly tipped them off. His mistake.

On the other hand, how could he have known that their esteemed leading forensic expert would be that useless? It’s just ridiculous, really. Where had this idiot found his diploma, in a damp site?

Or maybe he is being too harsh on poor fool. The cocktail should have dissipated by the time the body was found, shouldn’t it? It’s most probable that the components somehow left were unable to give any distinctive picture.

Really, what could have possibly gone wrong? The process slowed down by the subject’s death, or even stopped completely? Something else entirely? He’ll have to test it on his next subject.

It is indeed a pity that his knowledge in chemistry is rather sparse and way too specific. He wouldn’t be in this situation right now if it wasn’t.

No matter. It’s not as though he can switch tactics; the cops have caught a wind of him already and got a first (soon to be followed by second) sample of his creation. It’s only a matter of time before they request assistance of someone actually competent enough to discern his not-quite-poison.

Let them have their fun then. They won’t be able to track any of the components — commonly used, most of them — back to him. He made sure of it.

Besides, it’s not as though he could change his approach, even if the danger was a prominent one. How else would he be able to subdue his subjects? He is fairly decent in street fights, yes, but such uncontrolled event is bound to go down at any given moment. Useless noises, screams, general messiness, more chances of leaving behind some trail, or even the subject getting lucky and delivering a blow or two, leading to the necessity of cleaning it with bleach afterwards, which in turn may very well damage the canvas.

And threatening with a gun or some other sort of weapon? Even less appealing. If something goes wrong, in best case scenario he’d be forced to finish off the subject somewhere in the open, hoping beyond hope that no one would notice, and flee without completing the ritual properly. He’d be lucky then if the police would brush it off as a robbery gone wrong and wouldn’t contribute the embarrassing mess to him.

He shudders at the mere thought, straightening out his hand’s movement at the last moment before he could damage the canvas.

So, no, thank you. His own brand of complex relaxant that is.

He stares at the drop of blood that is somehow sliding down from the last cut despite the subject being very well dead for quite some time now, mesmerized. It’s amazing how much humans don’t understand about their own bodies and what they are capable of.

He wants to taste this drop, maybe lick it, but catches himself and violently pushes the idea away. His strange recently admitted fascination with blood aside, indulging himself is illogical and dangerous. This blood, however alluring, is tainted by his own creation. He can’t afford risking his safety on a whim.

Irritated, he gets up in one fluid movement born of combat practice, cleaning the blade with a handkerchief before sheathing it and putting in inner pocket of his coat. The cloth, neatly folded, goes into a ziplock bag to be disposed of later and joins the knife shortly after.

He glances back at the body left carefully arranged in the back alley of usually rather crowded place (not today, because he is meticulous and thorough enough to time it all perfectly with the construction works nearby) once more just to make sure that everything is as it should be and there’s no clumsy mistakes on his part. It’s ideal, of course.

Suddenly elated, he don’t stomp on this newfound feeling and revels in it instead. With a spring to his step, he enters the abandoned building to his left, following his carefully arranged escape route through attics and rooftops.

Let Gordon and his minions squirm and run around in circles, he is benevolent enough. They won’t be able to do much of anything, anyway. Their deductions are all hilariously wrong.

He will lurk in shadows, biding his time, all the while pursuing his goal. And then he will emerge, victorious, his perfectly honed plans coming into fruition. Nobody will expect it. These short-sighted ants are clearly unable to see an elaborate ruse even if it’s right in front of them.

Honestly, he almost feels sorry for Gotham and her citizens. They won’t know what hit them.

**JVJVJV**

“Holy mother of fuck!” Jim breathed out, astonished, because really — what else could he have uttered? Right in front of him, mere couple of feet away, a body laid atop a rundown ruin of a car proudly, arranged with utmost meticulousness to convey gruesome picture in perfect match. Not just _any_ body, per see, but once again a mirror image of the infamous psychopath.

This time, however, he came somewhat prepared to the sight and managed to discern tiny little details — wider cheekbones, thinner lips and the like — before shameful irrational impulse to check on said sicko’s twin brother could have overcome him.

Not that it changed much. He felt disturbed, like that naive rookie fresh out of Academy at his very first crime scene all those years ago over again. Like he didn’t belong in this world of human cruelty and vanity and gore. Out of place, definitely out of his depth.

Albeit now he was a Captain of whole department in a city with one of the highest crime rates in the country and didn’t have anyone to liberate him from his burden and take charge of this investigation. Even if he could somehow call it a serial offense, FBI wouldn’t come. After all, they tended to avoid places like Gotham unless there’s absolutely no way around their duty.

Therefore he was alone in it, without advanced labs and tech, fancy profilers, intimidating and efficient manpower or really anything of the sort. Nothing new here, truly. It’s just that feeling nagging at the back of his mind, of something deep and horrific and completely out of his control. He never questioned his intuition before, but now hoped with everything in him for being wrong for once. Because otherwise they’d never catch the guy and his victims — two for now, more to come — would never be revenged.

The design, however, didn’t leave much room for such flimsy, fickle little things as hope. The carefulness, thoroughness, intricacy of unknown perpetrator’s work could be amazing and praised for, if only applied to something less immoral and unlawful. A brilliant, very well-organized mind, indeed. It would be a miracle if they somehow slipped and left the police some evidence to work with.

And it was not just the scene itself (albeit Jim was willing to bet that the vehicle might very well turn out to be the same one that so graciously accommodated Jerome after the fall). The grandeur was always in many things, details being only one of them. What frightened Jim most (except the whole ‘get a beat-down car in a back alley near a popular bar and spend couple of hours arranging a corpse atop of it with none the wiser’ thing) was the impeccable timing. The perp had a short window to get here unbothered by anyone due to constructors. Their way back with empty hands was surely easier, but no small feat nonetheless.

And this calculating, immaculate control-freak with frankly scaring intelligence level was his enemy now. Jim had never been disillusioned enough to think of himself as anything other than average, and usually it had been enough, albeit at times barely. He wasn’t so sure this time around, though.

However, being at his wit’s end never before deterred Jim from pushing forward on sheer stubbornness, and he wasn’t about to give up now. It would take something bigger than a highly-functional sociopath of a serial killer on the loose for him to break under pressure. He wasn’t even sure himself that the dreadful point was even reachable. He came close once or twice, yes, especially while in prison, when Lee lost their child, but still resurfaced, alive and kicking. And he liked it that way.

“Captain Gordon?” familiar deep melodic voice asked from behind, and he turned abruptly, pulling himself out from his thoughts. Fuck! Speaking of devil...

“Lee,” he replied, unable to hide completely the longing in his voice at the sight of her. They didn’t have best of break-ups, and something in his chest fluttered still, despite her seeming so aloof and strictly professional towards him. “You look great,” he went on, because she really did. The Narrows changed her, breathed in new life where there was none left. The district suited her, so lively with a tint of hardship, and she suited it in turn.

She didn’t outwardly react to his sentiment, in fact, she barely even acknowledged it at all, as if they weren’t a loving couple not long ago, as if he was nothing more than a mere acquaintance.

“Thank you,” she simply said. “We came here to exchange information, hoping for your honesty. True, the kid isn’t from around here, but he was left in Narrows, thus became our business.”

Jim blinked. _We?_ he thought, only now realizing that he wasn’t alone with the woman whom he loved in some place far more pleasant, away from where he was at the moment. He glanced around, not really noticing a handful of locals scattered nearby, his eyes immediately glued in on the thin slick frame of none other than Edward fucking Nygma. Inadvertently he took a step forward, fists clenched.

“Careful now, Captain,” the hateful voice chided, sounding as put up and full of himself as always. “I’m a free _sane_ man now, Arkham made sure of it.”

Lee send Jim chaste look, putting her hand on Nygma’s sharp elbow as if comforting him — and god, could the world get even more insane that it was right now?!

“Yes,” she infuriatingly calmly said. “Edward and I didn’t come here to discuss our previous mistakes. Let past rest in the past, it won’t help any. This kid deserves better, _Narrows_ deserves better than that.”

Jim flinched, unable to comprehend what she was saying and take it in stride. For a moment Lee looked like she was about to say something, but thought better of it.

“Right,” he rasped, trying to speak past the limp in his throat. “About this kid-“

“It it true then that it’s a second body with similar wounds already? Is it a series?” Nygma interrupted, cocking and condescending as ever.

“I’m not at liberty to share the details of ongoing investigation, as you very well realize,” Jim said at last when he was finally able to overcome his sudden weakness, pointedly not looking anywhere other than at Lee. “However, I must warn you, do take care of yourself and those whose appearance bears distinct resemblance to certain someone we both unfortunately know.”

“Is that all?” she asked after a pause, taken aback. “Don’t you have anything to add to-“

“Officer!” he interrupted rudely, noticing some uniformed rookie beside the police cordon. “Why are there civilians on a crime scene?”

“But... Captain,” the young man came closer, “we’re in Narrows... and the Queen-“

“I refuse to listen to any of this!” he snapped. “Clear the area for the forensics this instant!”

“Yes, sir!”

He turned his attention to the corpse, covered only in bullet wounds, scars and splashes of blood with no closes whatsoever, unlike the previous one. Probably because it would be hard to find the exact same clothes Jerome wore on that faithful day without risking to warrant attention from investigators.

But no, it wasn’t that, there was some other meaning entirely, he just knew that. He didn’t have the slightest idea what that was, though.

“I shouldn’t have brought you along”, “Don’t you worry, my Queen, we’ll snatch all the details from our officers afterwards”, familiar voices whispered, carried away in the wind. He made a mental note to rummage through his department as soon as possible and promptly forgot about it.

**JVJVJV**

“Anything new?” Jim asked four days later, opening the meeting. He knew for a fact that the lab was unable to produce anything useful in past 24 hours.

“Well, the victim is Caucasian male, age 23, ID positive,” the leading expert began. “The kid was from Georgetown, came to visit some friends. Here’s the request to a acquire the body from his parents. Means of abduction also finally confirmed; it’s an injection in carotid artery, swift and precise, made with an experienced hand. That’s why we weren’t able to tell much of anything with the first vic, obviously. The concoction remains unknown, certainly custom made and never patented. I can tell that it’s effect spreads through entire body, making it pliable and nervous system unresponsive. I dare say that the guy most probably didn’t feel a thing while being shot in lower abdomen, left shoulder joint and right hand. All pre-mortem injuries, as you may guess.

“The cause of death is intriguing, though. An air injection in chest cavity, one certain movement that reached the artery closest to heart without breaking ribs. A very expert hand, as I’ve already mentioned. Our perp definitely has some field experience.

“All postmortem injures match to a T, except for one tiny detail,” the repulsive human being made a pause for an added dramatic effect. Jim started, not having heard this tidbit before. “Blood from the wound near right corner of vic’s mouth had been smeared!” He beamed proudly, basking in utmost attention from everyone in the conference room.

“And?” Jim pressed, not expecting the much ached for answer, but hoping nonetheless. “Do we have a fingerprint?”

“Not quite,” the expert deflated. “It’s a leather glove.”

Jim huffed, not understanding how anyone could seriously boast about something that useless.

“How do you know it’s leather?” Harper asked, and Jim wanted to hit himself for missing it. He needed to get rid of his hostility towards the expert as soon as possible. Just because the man shared his position with someone whom Jim despised he couldn’t automatically be labeled as a villain in the making. Honestly, they didn’t even look the same, and were nothing alike mentally as well.

 _Especially considering intelligence,_ a small traitorous part of his mind whispered. Nygma, for all his faults, would’ve already discerned the drug to the molecules and recited dozens of observations about its effect, components and where to buy them; prices, names and phone numbers included.

Jim shuddered, violently strangling the frivolous train of thought.

“Well, it leaves a certain pattern, of course. Unlike medical gloves, for example. It’s a very good leather, by the way. I bet some pricey fancy upper-class brand. I’m trying to trace the producer, but it’s a long shot.”

“Thank you, that’s already something, at least,” Jim praised, surprisingly meaning it. “We know that the perp is definitely loaded and has received a medical training. They are also resourceful, vastly intelligent, calculating, highly-functioning sociopath, probably-“

“Excuse me, Captain,” Harper interrupted bashfully. “But why a sociopath?”

“Yeah, Jim, you sound sure of yourself,” Harvey joined in.

“Because they don’t enjoy it, obviously. They don’t hold human life in high regard, that’s true, but there’s no resentment or maliciousness either. Just a means to an end,” he retorted, leaving no room for argument. “Now, as I was saying, they are probably at least in mid-twenties, not older then late forties at most. They wouldn’t be able to move around heavy bodies so efficiently otherwise. They also work alone, because they are clearly unable to put their trust into singular human being to the extent needed in such endeavor.”

“But why do they target Jerome then? It all sounds right up that psycho’s alley,” some rookie asked.

“I don’t know, right?” he snapped, wincing internally at his own antics. “Maybe they did have someone significant before Valeska took it all away, or they could have crossed their passes at some point, or any other reason we are not aware of. It matters not. Now, is there anything else anyone has to share?”

“No, sir. The surveillance types didn’t shed any light on what happened in Narrows. It seems like the car had been placed there a while ago, and then the body somehow delivered without being spotted on cameras or by locals,” Harper confessed.

“The car in question has not been promptly examined yet,” the lead expert added. “Give us a few more hours.”

“Very well,” Jim conceded, feeling the beginnings of a sever migraine creeping at him from the confines of his skull. “You are all dismissed then. Get back to work.”

**JVJVJV**

Of course, some peace and quiet turned out to be too much to ask. On Wednesday, roughly five days since the second body was found, the third one appeared. Once again in the docks, which prompted obvious question of the apparent significance of Narrows. After some fruitless entertaining it wrote itself onto ever-expanding list of questions without answers.

The body — a fit ginger with obvious penchant for workout and characteristic features, now smothered (or enhanced) by signature scars — laid stiff on the dump floor, not unlike a taut string or an arrow ready to strike, with chest expertly open for all the world to see. At first glance, there weren’t any obvious wounds that could cause death, if the forensic expert was to be believed about pain tolerance under the influence of _still unknown_ drug. Probably some injection of sorts, then. Their perp seemed overly fond of those.

There hadn’t been much to look at, excluding the obvious, so Jim left the lab stuff to their devices and called it a day. He wouldn’t be of any use here, anyway.

Next morning he got up almost half en hour early, somehow managing to sleep soundly through the night with enough time left for an unhurried shower and homemade breakfast for once. His great spirits diminished considerably on the way to work, however — mulling over corpses left by serial murderers tended to do that to normal people, apparently.

The first sight that greeted him was the damn leading forensic expert excitedly pacing in front of his office door. The man stirred, noticing Jim, and made a beeline for him.

“Good morning, Captain!” he exclaimed happily. “You won’t believe me when I tell you what the cause of death was.”

“By all means, enlighten me,” he deadpanned, not in the mood for any of this.

“Not a morning person, I reckon,” the expert chuckled. “Alright, alright. I wouldn’t want to tire you with the specifics, so all you have to understand is that’s incredible. Our perp decided, perhaps, to exploit the limits they previously brushed. That air injection close to heart, you remember? This time, however, they caved out the chest plate specifically for the sole purpose of experimentation. They’ve made several similar small injections, all the while carefully keeping an eye on the inner processes of their’s subject’s organism in order to prevent it from failing. Anyways, cause of death is actually, eh, drowning. The guy’s lungs were filled up with blood due to the abuse on blood flow, leading to complete exsanguination. The whole process took approximately two hours — exercised somewhere secluded, I guess. Rigor mortis suggests that the body was unresponsive throughout most of the ordeal, so we can definitely state that the mixture of drugs was designed for not only knocking out the victim, but also suppressing any and all impulses from the nervous system. Probably because the perp didn’t wish for their victims’ kicking to get in the way of their intricate work. Narcosis of sorts, I suppose. On the other hand, it’s just a lucky guess; in truth it might be something different entirely.”

“Wonderful observation. Now, is there anything relevant besides your being fascinated with the serial killer’s wrongdoings?”

“Uh, well, nothing, I guess. Not counting the fact that they can’t possibly be anything else other than medical doctor, probably surgeon. With this new data it’s a given, I assure you. They might have finally gotten the chance to test their theories on living beings — hospitals are usually touchy about experiments on patients or anything out of line, really.”

“So you are basically prompting to cross-reference our list with state hospital stuff registry for any matches?”

“Well, yes, for starters.”

“That’s astute of you.”

“Uh, thanks, I guess. Anyway, I’ll be on my way now,” he turned around clumsily, determinedly heading towards the staircase downstairs, before abruptly coming to a halt and fiddling with the hem of his lab coat, visibly debating in his head whether or not he should say something.

“What is it?” Jim prompted irritably, his headache coming back in full force as though having a good night’s rest itself. “Spill it already.”

“Well, uh, Captain,” the expert started hesitantly, for the first time in Jim’s experience looking unsure of himself. “I loath to admit it, but there’s no way I’ll be able to discern the components of this concoction to satisfying degree. I suggest we send it somewhere else for examination, maybe a private lab or something.”

“I see,” Jim replied at length. “Thank you for your input.”

He turned around and headed towards his office, not paying attention to the expert any longer. The problem arisen was the one he himself mulled over already — and just to no avail. He couldn’t risk the mixture coming out in the open, so the labs were out. Governmental units were also out for obvious reason, so what did it leave him with?

 _You know well who’d be up for such a challenge,_ immoral part of his mind whispered. He vehemently denied it, hardly able to overcome the bile in his throat gathering at the mere thought. Even if Lee could somehow feel comfortable enough in the constant presence of the man who sent her husband to rot in prison and killed her unborn child, Jim definitely wasn’t that forgiving. He would not let the bastard anywhere near himself or this investigation.

The other option was the one he didn’t think much of at first, however, with days passing without any progress whatsoever, it began to seem more and more plausible. Jonathan Crane wasn’t someone Jim had a problem with. He was a talented chemist who’d long since surpassed his ridicule of a father (may the Hell be unforgiving to that abhorrent piece of scum). But more importantly, Jonathan was just a damaged kid with shitty childhood at the hands of abusive all-controlling monster, thus prone to fall victim to all sorts of manipulations and toxic relationships. He didn’t even do anything himself, just provided his services for the psychopath well-known for his gaslighting skills.

Alright, Crane it was then. All that’s left now was convincing the Commissioner and Arkham administration of validity of such an unorthodox request. Hopefully they wouldn’t mock him about the stench of various FBI TV series.

He found himself relaying too much on hope these days.


	4. III

“So it’s that same car after all,” Jim sighed. “I’m not exactly surprised, truth be told.”

His team looked like every single one of them shared the sentiment. The sudden unity wasn’t as reassuring as it should have been.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Harper huffed, sounding anything but amused. “Its owners burned it down and dumped at the car heap on the outskirts of Gotham immediately after receiving it from us, and our perp just what, somehow gets on the premises unnoticed, steals, paints it and then stores in Narrows, all the while avoiding any sort of attention from people and cameras alike? It’s ridiculous! They shouldn’t have been able to get away with anything of the above, let alone the whole scheme. It’s as though they’re a fucking ghost!”

“Or simply know their way around outdated tech,” Jim objected. “You miss the main point here. The thing is, they’ve definitely planned it all in advance, so either our previous presumption about their respect towards law enforcement isn’t valid, or they knew how it all would play out and were more than just prepared to take the matters in their own hands. Both options arise concern.”

“Well, you don’t have to be a genius to predict that our honorary Captain here wouldn’t abide by the public’s unlawful desires,” the damn infuriating forensic expert muttered with sardonic smile on his lips.

“Fair point!” Harvey snorted before Jim managed to say anything in his defence. To be honest, he couldn’t exactly deny it. He was indeed a fair man with strong morals and belief in the system, one of Gotham’s very own oddities.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Jim stated firmly, not at all looking forward to the perspective of being privy to some more jokes at his expense. “Does maybe anyone have to add anything of value?.. No? Thrilling. I’ll be on my way to see the Commissioner then. Hopefully next time you see me I’ll bring along an experienced chemist.”

Harvey arched a brow, but didn’t say anything. It was entirely out of character for his friend, but Jim was grateful nonetheless. After all, he didn’t need one more battle to fight over the decision even he himself wasn’t entirely comfortable with.

Still, it had to be done, their personal opinions on the matter be damned.

**JVJVJV**

Of course it wasn’t that easy. Jim had yet to reach even halfway towards Commissioner’s office when his cell rang. He didn’t have to pick up the call to know what this was about; the ominous undertones of otherwise perfectly neutral melody, something that only his honed intuitive mind could conjure up after all his years on duty, was a dead giveaway.

He did so anyway, pulling over to the side of the street so as not to disturb other drivers.

“Text me the address, Harper, I’ll be there as soon as I can manage. Oh, and please call up the Commissioner’s secretary and pass the message that I won’t make it today, as it seems. You might have to disclose that there’s another body to avoid them feeling insulted and creating tension between us, new Commissioner is rather vain man.”

“Captain?” she asked, unsure. “How do you know that?”

“Trust me, you’ll be able to see these things coming when you work in the field for as long as I do,” he chuckled humorlessly. “Now, the address.”

“Will do right away, sir,” she replied, sounding slightly awed.

“Good,” he said before promptly disconnecting, lest he may voice his gnawing concerns about her being actually able to survive that long in this hell of a city.

He typed the received address into GPS and braced himself for a nearly hour-long ride. Definitely no meeting with Commissioner today, then.

Not that is was much of a loss, to be honest. The man (whose name Jim still couldn’t be bothered to memorize, by the way) was pretty useless. In fact, his new boss was actually worse than Reynolds, and that was saying something. Despite all his faults, such as the truce with Cobblepot, for example, the former Commissioner was at least wiling to do what he thought was best for Gotham and her citizens. (He also hadn’t been particularly bad at that, but Jim wasn’t about to dwell on such thoughts and question his own set of morals.)

New Commissioner, though, was a complete waste of space and city budget. Jim despised having to put up with him, and so the reprieve was almost welcome. Almost; if only the cause itself wasn’t so grim and ominous.

**JVJVJV**

“Captain!” greeted him his least favorite person on the team as soon as Jim showed up in the immediate vicinity of their elusive serial killer’s most recent crime scene. The expert spotted a shit-eating grin, which couldn’t indicate anything remotely good. “Have you ever witnessed crucifixion? I hear they still execute it sometimes in Iran.”

 _Well, fuck._ Here goes his assessment of the Doctor’s character.

“Excuse me? Did you just say _crucifixion_? As in ‘mounting a body on a cross to bleed to death’?” Jim specified faintly.

“Why yes! Unusual, isn’t it? However, the cause of death isn’t that. I’m unsure as of yet what it is, though, but definitely something else. Probably that devious concoction, or asphyxiation, or maybe even simple heart attack. You know how many things might cut this scriptural performance short?..”

“Enough!” Jim snapped. “I can certainly live without being subjected to your ranting on about your unhealthy obsessions. What substantial can you say about this murder now?”

The expert halted, but quickly regained his footing with a scowl and disappointed sigh, as if there was something wrong with Jim himself and not the other way around.

“Fine,” he rolled his eyes as if saying ‘you are no fun’. “The victim is, as usual, ginger Caucasian male around his mid-twenties, ID still negative for now as the post-mortem injuries (those are same as always too, by the way) make it somewhat of a difficult task. Oh, and his eyes are ripped out this time-“

“His eyes are _what_?” Jim asked incredulously out of reflex, because by then they had already reached the body. Empty eye sockets on its mutilated face somehow stood out even amongst all the other injuries, including fucking _nails penetrating palms and feet_ , for fuck’s sake!

There was something different about the whole scene, too, something that was almost tangibly thrumming in the air. A new kind of feeling to it, probably. Stil purposeful, maybe even more so, but seemingly less mechanical, as if the boring, mandatory part of assignment was over, and the perp finally got the chance to explore on their own, like a child eager to show off. If so, it just became easier for investigation, but frankly more frightening. What else could be born by creative, albeit definitely disturbed mind, before the police managed to catch up to whoever was committing this nightmare?

The head of the corpse rested on its left shoulder and upper arm almost casually, allowing the light that was coming through broken windows, framed by sharp fragments of leftover glass, to play on its face nothing short of beautifully (albeit this beauty was of monstrous kind). The empty sockets, filled with drying blood, posed as a centerpiece of this horrifyingly serene madness.

“Yeah, his eyeballs were ripped out, quite literally.” The oblivious to his inner thoughts expert went on. “There’s no finesse to it, almost as if the action was driven by rage-“

“How was the body found?” Jim interrupted with sudden urgency.

“We received anonymous call at the precinct...” the Doctor trailed off, seemingly coming to the same conclusion as Jim himself did.

“Exactly!” he exclaimed. “They’re playing with us. You there!” he pointed at a nameless rookie. “I require the recording of this call as soon as possible. Tell the techs to try trailing it to the source too. It’s not that I expect it to work, though. Most probably a burner. Nevertheless, if we are lucky we’ll have the voice to place.”

The rookie saluted and ran off. Must be a former soldier, then.

“I wouldn’t count on this either,” the expert scoffed.

“Probably not,” Jim agreed easily, as it really was a distinct possibility which he couldn’t cross out just yet. “We’ll see. Now, what were you telling me about the body again?”

“Well, as I was saying, the eyeballs were crudely ripped out without a care in the world. We’ve already established with distinct certainty that the perp possesses all the anatomical knowledge necessary for doing it less... messy. Thus, it must be emotionally driven impulse and not a part of original design.”

“Hm... Interesting. Might be a good sign. Go on.”

The expert hesitated, looking like a man who did have something else to add but unsure as to whether it would be appreciated and/or relevant in this very instant or not. 

He was saved from solving the dilemma by rather agitated Harper, who was nearly running in their direction.

“Captain!” she exclaimed, slightly out of breath. “It appears our John Doe is John Falls, a low-profile criminal with records for couple of robberies and an attempted arson, the match confirmed. Here’s his mugshot and everything,” she thrust a printout in Jim’s hands, seemingly proud of her record-time identification.

Jim looked over the paper, disinterested, then did a double-take and fixed his gaze upon the victim’s eyes. Even in black-and-white print they were too dark to be blue. Probably brown.

“What color were the eyes of three previous vics?” he asked, showing the picture to the man who did the autopsy in all the cases.

“Blue,” the forensic expert replied flatly without a moment hesitation, obviously getting the implications.

“Here goes your ‘emotionally driven impulse’,” Jim stated unnecessarily.

“I agree. They love their men to be of very specific type, after all. Can’t comprehend how I haven’t come to this simplest of explanations.”

“It happens to the best of us,” Jim patted him on a shoulder, feeling suddenly generous. “You rose a good point, though. Even if they were dissatisfied with the eye color and found it out too late (for example, abducted the victim in a club or a dark alley), such an outburst is uncommon for them. Don’t get your spirits too high, but they might’ve become over-confident and started slipping.”

“Good to hear that, sir,” Harper smiled.

**JVJVJV**

After leaving the crime scene Jim suddenly found himself at a loss for what to do next. It was way too early to call it a day, but Commissioner had certainly already retreated from his office, and Jim didn’t have any other active cases to work on, what with him clearing his schedule from anything less relevant and distributing it evenly among his fellow detectives and all.

After half an hour of moping (to which he’d never admit) Jim somehow found himself in his car, heading towards infamous Arkham Asylum. Might as well come to terms with the person whose assistance he was about to request, anyhow, while he was at it.

The fine establishment met him with usual flourish. Same ominous presence; check. Same glooming heights bespoken of dire need of refurbishment; check. Same orderlies best suited for state prison, and not fulfilling shortage of stuff there; check. Overall, the asylum awoke in him something almost akin to nostalgia, but not quite.

It turned out, visiting hours weren’t over yet, which made things a little bit easier. Of course, as an officer of the law he didn’t need to abide by these rules, nevertheless it came to his advantage. Less obstacles to overcome, at any rate.

Jonathan Crane was already seated in a private interrogation room not dissimilar to the ones at his good old precinct when Jim entered it. His hands were shackled to the table, but other then that, nothing confining was immediately perceptible. His eyes were clear too, without any trace of drugged haze. The last one was strange for such facility, but came in handy, so Jim decidedly didn’t dwell on it.

“Jonathan,” he greeted carefully, not entirely sure how to proceed. After all, coming here was a spun of a moment decision on his part.

“Captain Gordon,” the kid nodded in return, not showing any discernible emotion, and promptly relaxed against the uncomfortable chair, clearly not in any rush.

“How are you faring?” Jim asked, all the while trying to wrap his head around properly bringing up the actual reason behind his visit.

“I’m fine, thank you,” the inmate fell silent once again. Well, he certainly wasn’t giving Jim any much needed opening.

“You must be wandering what did I come here for,” he finally stated after several minutes of silence, during which his interlocutor seemed perfectly content. Definitely out of character for usually so fidgety and nervous man.

Was it possible that these shrinks actually started to get their job done? Sounded too good to be true.

“I might have been, yes,” Jonathan nodded again. “Not for long, though. You most probably need my brains. Have to be pretty desperate to do that, too, like some sort of a FBI agent from some ridiculous TV series. Therefore, I’m assuming it has something to do with this recent bunch of murders, yes?” Jim nodded mutely, quite astonished to hear the deductions that stroke too close to home for comfort. The speaker briefly smiled in satisfaction.

“Yeah, I knew I was right,” he continued, wetting his lips. “Now, this leaves us with two options. Either you wish to obtain my knowledge on Jerome in order to somehow make a breakthrough in your investigation, or the killer uses some untraceable with your expert’s skill drugs. Which one it will be?”

“The second,” Jim replied dryly, trying to hide that he was genuinely impressed. Damn, were all science nerds like this? Smart, arrogant, condescending and quite deranged, a clear danger to others?

The ‘good’ Valeska twin immediately came to mind, and Jim felt uneasiness washing over him. He wasn’t sure why, but he just couldn’t help being distrustful and reserved towards him. Probably had something to do with the poor guy‘s appearance or his eccentric quirks.

“So you want me to discern the contents of this mix?” he paused, once again waiting for confirmation, and proceeded only after getting one. “Intriguing offer, I’m sure. But what’s in it for me?”

Now that was somewhat familiar territory for Jim. Negotiating part. Easier than if Jonathan outright refused, but still not ideal outcome. He put a great amount of hope in slight possibility of his interlocutor jumping at the chance of trying challenge. Surely he didn’t have anything entertaining enough to do in here.

“What makes you think that you have any say in it?” Jim retorted without spite. After all, they both new that he indeed had, what with being the best (and only reasonable one) option and all.

Jonathan raised a brow as if to say ‘really, Captain?’, not gracing him with any verbal response. Well, there goes lack of hostility on his part.

“Alright,” Jim relented. “Tell me then, what is it that you want? I promise to consider your needs if there isn’t anything outrageous or impossible amongst them.”

“Oh, worry not, I wish for nothing of the sort,” the kid assured him with a small upwards tilt of his lips. If Jim was honest with himself, it didn’t sound exactly promising. “Just simple things, really. Like decent books, writing utensils, visits from my colleagues who are desperate to get past the lobby during visiting hours, scheduled walks in the courtyard which somehow never come true, no blood samples for analysis, the usual,” he shrugged nonchalantly.

“Fair enough,” Jim relaxed a little bit, then caught up to the real meaning behind his interlocutor’s words. “Wait, what did you just say about blood?”

“Oh,” Jonathan smiled for real, seemingly satisfied with Jim’s focus on the most crucial part, “you are probably wandering why I’m not drugged now, correct? They must be confident that you won’t believe me after Cobblepot’s failure to capture your attention in quite a similar situation, I suppose, otherwise they wouldn’t be so dismissive towards our undisturbed conversation. You see, they are trying to recreate my father’s toxin, and in order to do so require unbelievable amounts of my blood. Clear from any drugs, of course. This whole ordeal is quite tiresome, as you can imagine.”

Jim visibly paled, his breathes hollow and shaken. No, this can’t be happening, not again. Strange wasn’t in custody, his whereabouts remained unknown, yes, but surely he wasn’t anywhere near his old facility.

To his eternal shame, the jab disguised as a simple observation hit home. He indeed refused to believe Oswald when it mattered, inadvertently subjecting him to horrendous experiments on human psyche not dissimilar to those from Clockwork Orange. Up until now he hadn’t forgiven himself and didn’t really think he ever would.

“Do you have any tangible proof of this... unlawful activity of stuff here?”

“I’m afraid not,” Jonathan shook his head. “Easy now, Captain. Or have you perhaps caught vibes of certain psychiatrist with recalled license and affinity for strange eyeglasses?”

Huh, that wasn’t even subtle. Nevertheless, the problem was very much there. Jim couldn’t fathom what it might mean if said psychiatrist was indeed once again meddling with some of the patients here. Patients who didn’t have anyone who would readily stand up for them, their only option unattainable because those who were being paid to look after them allied themselves with a madman instead. Fuck, trust these nerds to sacrifice _lives_ in the name of science or simply go rogue at any given moment.

“I might have,” he pushed through clenched teeth. “Have you seen him? Have anyone mentioned his name while performing their abomination of research on you?”

“Not directly, no. But I have a feeling, you know, backed up by a couple of hints from their conversations. People get careless when they believe that you must be incoherent from a blood loss,” he paused, then went completely serious. “This whole institution _reeks_ of _him_ , Captain. Frankly, I want out and as far away from here as possible. However, I understand that that’s not an option given the circumstances, so I’m willing to settle for the next best thing. _You_.”

“Alright,” Jim rasped hoarsely, finally finding his footing again. “I promise you to investigate this matter discreetly and find you somewhere to stay in the meanwhile. Shouldn’t be too hard if you agree to help us with the murderer’s concoction. I’m afraid I don’t understand most of what my expert had to say on its contents, but this is something else entirely. No discernible components, no medicine fitting the effect, no nothing.”

“Sounds like a worthy challenge,” Jonathan smiled that crooked smile of his, reassured and a little bit excited. “I’m game.”

“Good. Expect the convoy from my precinct in a day or two. I still have to confirm it with Commissioner, but don’t worry, it won’t be hard.”

“Thank you, Captain. I’ll see you in a couple of days then,” Jonathan singsonged, a weight visibly lifted from his shoulders.

Jim called for the guards and left, catching sight of Crane’s entire demeanor changing into something more appropriate for a person who was being experimented on and didn’t expect any changes for the better in the near future. Such a talented kid, indeed.

**JVJVJV**

With a sense of a man who’d had a productive day (and something akin to dread when his thoughts drifted towards his last conversation) Jim entered his rundown apartment, throwing keys at nearby cabinet and missing by inch. Tired and weary, he decided against crawling on the floor in the dimly lit corridor on all fours, despite knowing that he would definitely be running around searching for his keys come morning. It would be a problem of morning Jim then, and evening Jim wanted nothing to do with it.

Inappropriately satisfied with his ridiculous musings, he picked up a couple of beers and pre-made dinner and flopped down on his comfortable, if a bit threadbare couch and turned on the TV. He immediately had to switch from the news station in order to avoid dwelling on unpleasant things. Yeah, a mind-numbing nameless comedy would do nicely.

He sat through the rest of the program for over an hour, then discarded two empty bottles in the trash bin and retreated to his bedroom, throwing himself at soft linen and forgoing brushing his teeth this one time. After everything that happened today he needed a good night’s rest.

Of course that wasn’t the case, as far as the justice of the universe was concerned.

He was woken up in the middle of the night by a shrill sound of his cell. Groggy from the lack of proper sleep, he spent couple of moments unmoving, willing the disturbance to just go away, but alas, it wasn’t meant to be.

“Gordon!” he roared, silently promising to himself that he would murder whomever it was if the news wasn’t something akin to world’s end.

It turned out, the cause was much worse.

“S-sorry, Captain,” a somewhat familiar voice squeaked, “but it’s most urgent. We got two new bodies.”

“What!?” Jim croaked. “Are you certain? It’s less then full 24 hours since the last one.”

“I’m afraid yes,” the nameless officer confirmed, sounding sincerely downcast. “I’m standing here right now in front of a body with most familiar facial mutilations, there’s no doubt in that.”

Jim groaned, feeling something heavy and unpleasant sinking into his stomach.

“Text me the address, I’m coming,” he relented and hang up, getting up with some difficulty. Even if he refused to go, he knew that sleep wouldn’t come. Might as well accomplish something at the crime scene.

He rubbed any remnants of slumber from his eyes and splashed some water in his face, once again forgoing anything else for the time being. As predicted, locating his keys turned out to be no easy task, and he cursed evening Jim after hitting his forehead on the cabinet twice. Alas, he managed and finally left his apartment, appearing more worn-out then ever.

The sun was just glazing the horizon at such ungodly hour. Who informs the police about corpses at four in the morning, anyways? Hopefully not the maniac. There must be at least some decency in them.

“Who called the precinct?” He asked, determinedly breezing in one more rundown warehouse in the docks.

“Anonymous tip, sir,” replied distinctly familiar officer whose call woke Jim up. “It’s not the perp, however. Must be some criminal aiming to conduct his nefarious business here, sir.”

“Why are you so sure?” he asked.

“The voice is clear male and not tinkered with, as far as I can tell. The recording is already sent to the techs to be examined and traced back come morning, though.”

“Great work, Officer,” Jim nodded appraisingly. “Now show me the bodies.”

“Right away, sir!” his subordinate preened and led him further into the building.

“I trust that nothing has been touched?” he asked absentmindedly, not expecting negative answer.

“Of course, sir!” the Officer confirmed indignantly.

“Just to be on the safe side,” Jim assured. “I’m not questioning your abilities.”

They came to a stop in front of a revolting composition which suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Jim had a sneaking suspicion that perhaps it was exactly the intended effect.

One body laid sprawled on the floor in praying position, its up-tilted face obscured by unruly ginger locks and covered by a mask which didn’t let the observers immediately know whether or not the victim was mutilated as per usual. Right in front of it another was carefully arranged on some wires and hooks to look magnificent and intimidating, somewhat god-like, its left arm stretched towards the prayer with a human heart in the palm. The origins of the organ were easily traced back to a gaping hole where its chest cavity should have been. This one definitely had all the facial scars, moreover, the eyeballs were removed and replaced with green glass.

“Well, fuck,” Jim whispered hoarsely. “Definitely our perp.”

“Sir, I’ve taken the liberty to inform your investigating group a little while ago whilst awaiting your arrival,” the Officer hesitantly told him.

“Alright, that’s helluva quick thinking on your part. I’m not complaining, though. Have photos already been taken?”

“Not yet, sir,” the Officer replayed self-depreciatingly. “I’m sorry, but the light bulbs over here don’t seem to be connected to the line, so I had to request floodlights which have yet to be brought in. The techs aren’t especially quick due to current time, unfortunately.”

“Alright, we’ll have to wait a bit then. No matter. Oh, and quiet this attitude this instant, you have nothing to blame yourself for.”

“Erm... Thank you, sir,” the kid replied after a pause, looking anywhere but at Jim. He smiled a little at his antics. God, when would this ridiculous hero-worshipping finally cease to exist?

 _Probably when you fail to catch this monster_ , traitorous part of his mind whispered, always so eager to sour his mood as thoroughly as possible.

Thankfully, the arrival of his leading expert, accompanied by none other than Harper, cut his self-destructive train of thought short. Were they probably having an affair?

Jim felt an immediate urge to interfere, which was rather hypocritical of him, considering his relationship with Lee. He couldn’t bring himself to abide by regulations then, he would mind his own business now. It was probably nothing, anyways.

“Good morning, Captain!” the Doctor’s welcoming smile could illuminate the whole area better than any floodlights. Damn, was he also a morning person on top of all the other shortcomings? Unbelievable.

Unlike Jim’s own, the man’s appearance could not in any way indicate that he’d just been woken up at ungodly hour. Instead he looked as immaculate and put together as always, as though taking a stroll at some art gallery or social gathering instead of a crime scene. The bastard just had to make Jim hate him even more with each passing second, didn’t he?

“Morning. What can either of you tell me about these bodies on first glance?” he replied dryly.

The expert put on elastic gloves with practiced ease and casually glided forward, looking distinctly out of place and right where he belonged all at once.

“Wait!” Jim suddenly remembered. “Don’t disrupt anything, we’ve yet to take decent enough pictures.”

He got a clearly disappointed sigh in return, but the Doctor relented and settled for simply observing for now.

“Well,” he broke the silence after a couple minutes of thorough examination, “I can’t tell you much at this point, besides the obvious like the pattern break. The cause of death is pretty much indiscernible in both cases as I don’t have an opportunity to at least check the bodies for any further damage. Hopefully it is going to be remedied soon. The time of death is about two to four hours ago at most. Both murders were executed in quick succession somewhere not far from here, judging by rigor mortis, otherwise the arrangement wouldn’t be so effortlessly executed. I say we are pretty lucky, these ones are almost as fresh as they come.”

“Wonderful. Anything else?”

The expert mutely shook his head.

“Er, about the pattern...” Harper hesitantly began, but stopped herself from further voicing any thoughts.

“Yes, Harper? Go on,” he prompted, curious to know whether or not her sharp wit would allow her to come to the same conclusions as he himself did.

“Okay, right. It’s probably stupid and obvious, but I don’t see anything premeditated about this. It’s like... like they just happened upon these two and couldn’t help themselves but cut into them. As though stricken by a sudden boost of inspiration, if this reference can be applied in such circumstances.”

“I agree,” Jim assured her light-heartedly (shit, was he turning into a leader of support group or what?). “It disrupts the cycle, and not solely because of the time frame or that there’re two victims. These killings are basically nothing like the others.”

“Oh my god, you think it might be a copycat?” Harper gasped, clearly horrified.

“No! No, you don’t get it; the perp is the same. It’s just... They have some sort of plan, and this just doesn’t fit in. Like you said, ‘a sudden boost of inspiration’, which resulted in what you see here; something incomprehensible and out of character. Well, I mean I’m fairly sure this delays some perfect message in our perp’s books, but it just doesn’t make sense to anyone outside of their particular depravity,” Jim struggled to find accurate words to describe his impression. Of course, his inner critic saw fit to point out that he failed spectacularly.

“I’m not sure I follow,” Harper admitted carefully. “Are you dismissing altogether the notion that it’s about justice then? Or maybe just this once?”

“Not exactly, no. What I’m trying to say is that there’s more to it than what we’ve previously assumed. There’s something else besides the hate and desire for vengeance. And I’m honestly unable to fathom what that might be.”

At long last the techs decided to grace them with their presence then, which naturally led to discussion coming to a halt. After pictures from all possible angels were successfully taken his group was finally able to proceed with further examination. The bodies were quickly transported into awaiting ambulances, Harper skipped off to check the base for ID, and everyone else trailed towards the precinct.

As soon as Jim stepped foot into his department, he was practically assaulted by Vanessa, who was thrumming with energy.

“Both IDs positive, Captain. One of the guys had a minor offense, luckily for us not expunged yet. Moreover, their friends have already tried to report them missing several hours ago but were turned down due to not enough time passing. They were abducted together, we’ve even got exact time and place.”

Everyone in the earshot looked positively shocked. Jim himself wasn’t fairing any better. After all this time his people might finally have their first real chance to put this madness to stop.

“That’s great, actually the best lead we’ve gotten so far. Contact these friends immediately, request video surveillance of the place if there is any.”

“Right away, sir!” she readily replied, but didn’t make any move.

“What is it, Harper?” Jim asked impatiently. Honestly, she had to either man up or proceed with her orders already. Surely she understood that time was of the essence?

“I’m just... Is the perp really...” she trailed off unsurely.

“Slipping? Yes, I do believe so. We might really stand a chance now.”


	5. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven’t expected update this soon? Me neither. Most of it just somehow written itself in couple of hours. Hope the quality won’t be amiss because of that.

He’s slipping, slipping, slipping, escalating too hard too fast, he realizes it now at last, but he can’t help himself. Jerome is close, _too_ close and simultaneously not enough, and he can’t _stand_ it. The endless stream of lookalikes becomes less controlled, almost spontaneous at times. They are chosen and abducted more recklessly, openly, as though he dearly wishes to get caught (which he certainly doesn’t).

He’s just fucking slipping; risking everything, and apparently unable to do a thing about it. Any minute now James Gordon might connect the dots and come barging in at his doorstep, face alit with shocked disgust and disappointment, and confine him to Arkham walls. His pursuit will be left incomplete, message never properly conveyed.

It’s pure luck that the police is too blind to actually _see_ him. His latest display was a disaster, his soul laid bare for all the world to see. It’s a miracle nobody was able to catch up to him after that.

And if his strenuous life has taught him anything, it’s that miracles are rare and few in between. They never last. He has to stop recklessly challenging his good fortune before it runs thin.

He used to be more careful, borderline paranoid even, he knows. At the moment, however, he doesn’t quite recall what it’s been like, for fuck’s sake. It exhilarates him almost as much as it frightens him.

No matter. He sees his faults now clearly. It’s a good thing, a blessing that he’s realized it before it could be too late. He’ll apply more cautiousness and vigilance from now on, and everything will be fine.

He’s going to be fine, too.

**JVJVJV**

“Alright, what do we have this far?” Jim opened yet another one meeting later in the day.

“Both recordings’ examinations are complete,” Harper began. “The second one was easy. The voice belongs to a relatively young man who is used to giving informative reports and following orders. Adding on top of that the phone number itself (which is already unavailable, of course) with signature cipher patterns, we may safely assume that it was one of Cobblepot’s goons. What interest did the Penguin have in there is another matter entirely, though...” she trailed off with a light frown.

“It’s none of our concern for now, Harper. There’s more pressing matter to attend to, focus on it,” Jim reprimanded to get her back on track.

“Of course, forgive my laxity. As I was saying, the second call is apparently of no interest to us. The same, however, cannot apply to the previous one. First of all, the voice itself had been heavily tinkered with, which should have been obvious from the start to anyone who wasn’t the receptionist, god bless her with some brains. In original record it’s genderless with floating, otherworldly quality to it. Definitely not your regular civilian. The techs did what they were able to, but admittedly it wasn’t much. We still cannot discern whether it was a male or a female. Confidence and speech pattern suggest that we are dealing with someone well-educated, possibly of rather high standing. And that’s all there is, unfortunately.

“Second of all, the telephone used is located in a relatively remote area far enough from the crime scene, probably in order to avoid being spotted in case there was a patrol car nearby. There’s no active cameras which could have helped us with identification of the culprit, so that’s a dead end too.”

«Just wonderful,” Jim sighed. Not that he expected anything less from their elusive serial killer, but still. Disappointment sat heavily in his stomach. “What about the questioning of fifth and sixth victims’ friends?”

“Well, they weren’t able to tell much, either,” she grimaced. “Apparently, the company was hanging out in a club celebrating the vics’ one year anniversary. At some point both went in the back alley to smoke, leaving their stuff behind. Of course, they never did come back. It was very much out of character, so their concerned friends conducted a small search party and called the police after it proved futile. The mentally challenged receptionist turned them down, advising to push aside their unfounded worries and wait 48 hours, and that was that. I had a couple of officers talking to security, bartender and regulars, but nobody noticed anything.”

Harper finished her speech and visibly slumbered in her seat. For a few moments nobody dared to break the silent spell. Then she did it herself, seemingly talking to nobody in particular. 

“You know what scares me most? You might go out with your friends for once to celebrate something significant, amazing even, like an anniversary of your relationship with a person whom you love and wish to spend the rest of your life with, and then in fucking perfect irony this faraway end suddenly comes closer than you ever imagined. And you die slowly, all the while looking at your other half knowing that their fate is also sealed, and nobody gives a shit. Fucking nobody!”

“Harper... Vanessa...” Jim began, not really comprehending what could he possibly say in wake of her unexpected outburst. He stopped.

“Well, none of them did, in fact, die slowly,” the expert awkwardly cleared his throat and tried to take a ball. Well, apparently ‘tried’ was a key word.

“Ex-excuse me,” the girl whispered hoarsely and in a moment was already out the door.

“Vanessa? Nessy?” Jim heard someone asking in the hallway. No discernible reply came, and suddenly the door burst open.

“What did you do to her?” an officer, some rookie from her graduation year, demanded wildly. They must be close friends, then.

Jim explained situation as best he could, considering he himself didn’t know what happened. Everything seemed alright, and next thing he knew Harper fled in tears.

“Oh,” the rookie deflated. “Her parents died in a car crash on their way to celebrate her acceptance in the Academy. The other driver was high and survived with just a couple of scratches.”

The poor youth looked close to tears himself and left quickly after, presumably to tend to his friend. The room once again was engulfed in oppressive silence, its occupants brooding upon Harper’s departure and the implications behind it.

Nobody left, though, even when it became evident that the meeting was ruined.

Albeit quarter an hour or so later Harper came back, her face slightly red and tense but otherwise perfectly blank.

“I apologize, that was immature and completely uncalled for,” she confessed calmly and stopped by her previous seat. “May I join you again?”

“Yes, of course,” Jim hurried to reassure her, feeling awkward and out of his depth. All the platitudes tasted hollow on his tongue, and so he didn’t dare to voice them, acting as normal as he could master. The others quickly followed suit. “So, er, we’ve established that both leads were nothing but dead ends and covered everything except for forensics. Doctor Rosen, if you please?”

“Sure, Captain,” the expert sent him an easy smile, quickly casting his eyes on Harper before delving into his passion. “I’d like to begin with victim number four. The autopsy revealed that the cause of death is heart failure. Which is strange, considering that cravings on poor guy’s face were only postmortem injuries. Someone definitely didn’t get their parents to buy them enough artistic tools and toys, judging by their affinity for delicate hand work.

“On the other hand, the victim was unconscious most of the way, as the state of inner organs and muscles suggests. So it’s not surprising that careless removal of eyeballs didn’t result in immediate shock and therefore death. In that case, however, the heart shouldn’t have nearly exploded the way it did. Probably some side effect of still unknown paralyzer, then. The whole process must have come to an untimely end not long before the call, so it’s safe to assume that the perp observed the execution till the very last vic’s breath and only then proceeded to arrange the body and leave.

“Oh, and the cross itself was assembled perfectly. If I recall correctly (and I usually do), this one is called Crux Commissa, the Romans’ favorite. Christ himself was rumored to be crucified on a similar one, as many early Christians. All angles and metrics are immaculate to a T, so there’s probably some religious background in our perp’s biography.”

“Not necessarily,” Harper chimed in. “I grew up in a deeply religious family, however, this aspect of education has evidently somehow escaped my notice.”

Well, Jim was glad that situation with Harper’s parents has been brought to his attention, otherwise asking her to speak to them could become an awkward and unnecessarily painful experience for all parties involved.

“Alright, I acquiesce to your expertise there. No new markings on their background. Now, where was I?.. Yes, all this grants us yet another mystery, by the way. The amount of blood covering the floor at the scene wasn’t nearly enough, thus the body was most probably moved in there from elsewhere. The question is, _howheavy wooden cross_ which is almost four meters long and about half as wide without disrupting the body or attracting any attention?”

“Maybe they just put some sheets or something underneath and then just removed them?” Harvey interrupted.

“Improbable. It must have left some trace then, which it obviously didn’t. The notable absence of any dust near the cross base, at the very least.”

“Improbable, but not impossible?” his best friend inquired further.

The expert scoffed, positively _fuming_. Jim decided that it was his clue to interrupt upcoming debacle.

“That’s enough,” he stated with his ‘authoritative voice’ full on. “The body may or may not be moved whilst attached to the cross, it might have been put down and then mounted anew, but it generally gives us nothing. Doctor, please, continue.”

“Hm, I haven’t thought of that. I’ve already examined the wounds, of course, and didn’t notice anything, but I’ll re-examine them. Thank you, Captain,” the expert replied. “Now, to the most interesting part; eyeballs removal. The mockery on surgery was executed with solid dull object not fitted for these kind of things. The nerves were severed with blunt force indiscriminately, without acknowledging any single one of them. Most fitting analogy which I can come up with would be carving eyes out with a spoon, as the saying goes.”

“A fucking _spoon_?” Harvey asked incredulously, beating Jim to it by a hair.

“Why yes,” the Doctor sounded perfectly collected, if a little bit condescending. “Haven’t you ever heard the expression?”

“I have,” Harper confirmed smilingly with the same air of superiority. God, is this is what they found in each other? Knowledge of some morbid, but otherwise ultimately useless things?

Just who on earth uses such a metaphor, anyways? Helluva sick bastards, that’s who.

“That was most enlightening, thank you,” Jim joined in at last with irritation seeping through, once again playing mediator. “Now, if you would be so kind as to continue sharing your findings, Doctor.”

“But of course,” his personal Calligari relented without missing a bit. “Where was I again?”

“Spoon-carving,” Harper prompted pleasantly, ever so eager to help.

“Thank you, Vanessa. As we’ve already established, the victim’s eye color must have been an unpleasant surprise for our perp. They got angry and, well, basically unleashed it on poor pal, forgoing any finesse. They didn’t go down the same route with their next victims. The eyeballs of the figure posing as ‘God’ were removed with surgical precision which we’ve long since come to expect. The wounds were closed and cleared with disinfectant before being filled with bottle glass.

“Most intriguing, though, is the fact that the shards were a close match to the color of the second victim’s eyes. His irises were covered in dozens of small incisions made with a very delicate and sharp scalpel, probably neurosurgical, to better mirror the ones that stared down at them. An astonishing feat, I tell you! In all the years in my line of work I’ve never come close to anything resembling this masterpiece.

“Now, to the less juicy details. The heart in outstretched hand of ‘God’ indeed belongs to the deity himself. However, the heart of ‘prayer’ (also removed with practiced accuracy) is nowhere to be seen. Death in both cases came as a direct result of unconventional cardiac surgery, which is to be expected, considering that humans still weren’t able to live without this organ last time I checked.

“Postmortem injuries are limited to facial accommodations in both cases, which really should go without saying at this point, some piercings from hooks where ‘God’ was mounted on them, and four small circular holes in ‘prayer’s’ jaw and frontal bones where the mask was literally drilled in. That one was a bitch to remove, by the way. Probably has some underlying meaning to it, too, that I cannot grasp with my sanity intact.”

“The mask was... attached with screws? How?” Jim asked disbelievingly.

“With a drill, I’d wager,” came forth a dry reply. It seemed that even tough pathologists had some moral boundaries, after all.

“Unbelievable,” Jim finally breathed. “Anything else?”

“Nope, that would be all.”

“Good,” he replied, sounding like he meant it. That was certainly enough gruesome madness for one day, he could live without any additional damage to his psyche.

**JVJVJV**

Jim checked his watch after leaving Commissioner’s office. The clockwork was nearing four in the afternoon, thus by the time he’d reach the premises of the remote bunker it would be about half past five. Early evening, but not too late as to be considered rude. In other words, perfect.

It’s not to say that showing up at someone’s doorstep pretty much unannounced was exactly polite, but Jim had done something to the number given to him in past couple of weeks. Might had accidentally deleted it (or even on purpose, if he subconsciously aimed to avoid dialing it after finding each new body).

He called Jeremiah (or Xander, as the engineer fancied himself) twice during this time, cautioning him against wandering anywhere along and offering protection, but was carelessly brushed off. Though Jim probably wouldn’t have worried about his own safety, too, if he lived in such a place.

Nonetheless, Jim could not in good conscience condone this any longer. The killer was dangerous, and Jeremiah looked like his best dream come true (excluding Jerome’s execution, of course). The youngest Valeska had already been overconfident in the past, which resulted in near death experience.

Admittedly, Jerome had an advantage of knowing his brother’s first maze designs and claimed to understand his thought processes (and was already inside the bunker when he stroke), but still. This person was dangerous.

Jim pondered upon all of this on his long drive out of Gotham. Not like he had anything else to occupy his thoughts with, at any rate. His meeting with Commissioner had been pretty uneventful; getting a written permission to ‘borrow’ Arkham inmate was a child’s play in comparison to his everyday struggles with the damn case and went without a fuss. Commissioner was busy panicking, as though the killer would barge in at any minute and end his miserable life despite the man being as far away from required victimology as humanly possible.

God, such a waste of space. How this embodiment of disappointment managed to get his position was beyond Jim.

He’d better stop this train of thought before it could lead in some of the darkest recesses in his mind.

Surprisingly, the traffic wasn’t nearly as busy as it should have been. Jim frowned for a moment, but thought nothing of it. He wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Jeremiah’s reaction upon his arrival was far from unexpected, however. The engineer seemed as pleased as on his own deathbed. Nothing Jim couldn’t deal with, though.

Jeremiah was free to be displeased all he wanted, but that didn’t change the simple fact that this conversation _had_ to take place, and it must be in person for Jim to have any chance in bringing his point across. He needed to be as much persuasive and open with his information as possible, up to the gruesome details even, if he wanted this stubborn and arrogant man to concede.

And so he did just that, even going as far as exaggerating a bit his own fears and insecurities. Anything to save a life.

Apparently, all of it was in vain.

“They are just mannequins, blank slates with some sort of physical resemblance to Jerome,” Jeremiah talked him down condescendingly. “Your culprit doesn’t know them, presumably doesn’t care enough to. They are meaningless, faceless. While l, he knows me. The whole city does now, for fuck’s sake! And if your perp is half as smart as he seems, he definitely gets that there’s no one who hates my deranged psycho of a brother more than I do. Thus, I’m perfectly safe.”

There was something about this dismissive attitude that stirred Jim, some form of underlying _wrongness_ that was practically shouting at him, but the feeling was gone almost as fast as it appeared. Jeremiah, for all his acting skills, honed into perfection over the years of abuse at the hands of his abhorrent relatives, including _his own fucking twin_ , was not as calm as he wanted Jim to believe. Hands slightly trembling, emotions flicking just behind the veil of thick-rimmed glasses, he was about as repulsed and a bit scared as he should be.

Still, there was only so much Jim could do when someone who’d been offered protection outright refused it. And it’s not like a car standing in the open not far from the entrance into _an underground bunker in the middle of nowhere_ of all things would be inconspicuous enough to be overlooked.

With heavy weighing down heart Jim just had to leave the ‘good’ twin be for the time being. _Again._

“You sound like you’re almost praising whoever does this,” Jim couldn’t help but voice his nagging thoughts after being led to ‘exit’ sign. His frustration with this damn stubborn mule of a man made him sound somewhat harsher then intended, but he refused to apologize even as his interlocutor halted a bit.

This visible display of weakness, though, was gone in a second, leaving behind an emotionless face.

“And what if I am, in a way?” Jeremiah retorted almost defensively.

Jim openly gaped at him, as he had come to understand a long time ago that engineer wasn’t most straightforward and honest of people, to put it lightly. In fact, he had a grooming suspicion that not all of what Jerome sprouted about his sibling was lies or delusions, but had no way of proving it (or didn’t care enough to, frankly).

“At least there’s someone out there who’s doing something in order to achieve what all you goody two-shoes dare not to. You wish my brother dead, Captain, but don’t have gulls to do what must be done and thus delude yourself into thinking that you are a good person, whatever connotations that may hold, with your pesky morals and misplaced obligations. Admit it,” the corner of his mouth, uplifted in not quite a smirk, looked almost cruel against unblemished porcelain skin on his angelic face.

“So you are basically justifying what they are doing to all these poor innocent people with no reason bar their facial resemblance to your brother!?” Jim exclaimed, finally able to come to his bearings. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Not exactly, no,” Jeremiah calmly denied, as though they were discussing weather or food or whatnot and not gruesome murders. “I can’t honestly fathom what your perpetrator thinks it might accomplish. Surely not the desired outcome? Such approach is faulty, pointless. I’d probably do it myself otherwise.”

“You... what?” Jim barely whispered. This evening turned out to be more revealing than he expected (and wanted to, to be honest). He decided on mocking some sense into his clearly spooked vis-à-vis. “My, such admissions from an upstanding, law-abiding citizen who vehemently denies he has anything in common with his deranged brother. Are you feeling quite well?”

“I’m perfectly fine, I assure you. True, I abide by your laws, if only because I see no reason not to, like any sane person would. I’m _nothing_ like that megalomaniac!”

Were their circumstances any different, Jim would have prided himself for goading a real emotion from his host. Though admittedly, there was no easier way to achieve that than by bringing up supposed similarities between the Valeska twins.

“If you say so,” he drawled, tired of this conversation and sensing the beginnings of a massive headache. “I’m afraid I must be on my way. If you don’t require our protection, suit yourself.”

With that said, he turned around and headed towards his car, not willing to stay in Jeremiah’s vicinity any longer. The guy might be a sociopath or even a psychopath, but that in itself wasn’t a crime yet, unless he acted on his impulses (which he did not, too afraid to be compared to his brother). Because of that Jim felt bad for leaving empty-handed, and also angry and disappointed, but there truly was only so much he could do. He didn’t have enough patience to deal with such open hostility.

Jeremiah Valeska made his bed, and he was the one to bear the consequences.

**JVJVJV**

Next morning found Jim in grumpier than usual mood, which only worsened when he reached the precinct. Something was not quite right.

He’d noticed it the day before, of course, in the atmosphere on the streets and the way Jeremiah was uncharacteristically twitchy and too distraught to filter what left his mouth, but dismissed it altogether, feeling that he would be alerted if there was anything of importance going on. Probably something entirely unrelated to the case, then.

He changed his mind when he entered the building, though.

His officers gathered in small groups, anxiously talking among themselves. Something definitely was not right.

“What is it?” he asked resignedly when spotted Harper’s familiar face, laced with apparent worry. Instead of answering, she snatched a copy of Gotham Gazette from her random colleague. The guy made to protest at first, but shut his mouth the moment he noticed his boss.

Jim had a feeling that he already knew what this was about. After all, they couldn’t honestly expect to keep the press off their tails forever. They were lucky it didn’t happen sooner.

All these calming thoughts left his head as soon as he laid his eyes upon the paper that was literally thrust in his face. There, nearly the size of the whole front page, was barely photoshopped photo of the killer’s latest design with a catchy headline above. ‘Pray for Jerome’s victims’, by Valerie Vale.

He stared at it, uncomprehending, unwilling to break serene numbness that swallowed him raw. The silence stretched, all the background voices transforming into barely audible buzz.

Jim didn’t know what to say, didn’t want to think about it or the impending doom. He dared not to ponder upon the amounts of hardly effective damage control that gleefully awaited him. He’d probably have to speak at some useless press-conference for hours on end (activity which he despised), knowing that all the while he could have been making progress on his case instead. While distracted, he would inadvertently endanger those who were of interest to the killer. More lives that he could not save, weighing heavily on his conscience.

“Just what does this woman think she is doing!?” he growled, the spell finally broken. He smashed the mocking paper with his fist, barely able to stop himself in time from tearing it to shreds and making a fool of himself in front of his subordinates, and stormed off to his office, throwing the piece of junk into the nearest bin.

“Don’t you dare bother me unless it’s absolutely necessary!” he ordered, slamming the door shut with unnecessary force. The glass wall visibly shook.

He’d have to check it for cracks later, he decided. For now he had a journalist to slaughter.

He should have her number left somewhere from the time they dated. He shuddered at the memories; how it all came to be was beyond him at the moment.

He calmed down somewhat while searching for her business card, but it still wasn’t enough for dealing with this vulture who wouldn’t hesitate to use his words against him. Not that he cared, though. Let her write all the garbage she wanted, the damage was already done and couldn’t get any worse, as far as Jim was concerned.

Just as he readied himself to dial distantly familiar number, feeling nervous and agitated for all the different reasons from the ones he had had what seemed like a lifetime ago, somebody knocked on his door.

“What is it now!?” he snapped, his carefully gathered concentration gone.

The door opened, revealing nervous looking Harper, who evidently volunteered (or more likely, draw the short straw) to disturb his peace.

“I hope for your sake it’s nothing short of emergency,” he warned, somewhat subdued in the face of her clear reluctance to be there, but no less vindictive.

“It is, Captain,” she said with all the confidence she could master, successfully pulling herself together. “We’ve got a new body.”

Jim cursed.


	6. V.I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gods, I am so sorry for such a delay. The chapter is not yet complete, so it’s probably isn’t actually a good idea after all, but I decided to post the first part to show that I’m still alive somehow. Hopefully, it won’t take long to finish it and return to semi-regular posting.

Doctor Rosen was already at the crime scene, smoking furiously with a manic gleam in his eyes, when Jim killed the engine and left his car. No surprise here; the fucker probably teleported via whatever contraption he was building down in the labs in his work time instead of actually doing his job.

Or he might have taken his time and appeared here like the rest of his team, leaving unfortunate Harper behind to gather all her courage and fetch their fuming Captain. God, was he really that frightening?

Apparently, there was at least one person left who wasn’t wary around him, because as soon as the expert took notice of Jim, he immediately discarded the butt and made a beeline for him, grinning widely with a spring to his step.

“Captain, you’ve made it at last!” he exclaimed. “I was-“

“Apparently so,” Jim cut him off dryly. He was being unprofessional and rude, of course, but he couldn’t stand anyone that cheery in the vicinity of a fucking _corpse_ , for God’s sake, not to mention his overall mood after the morning disaster.

The expert must have caught up on this (not that it posed any difficulty, to be honest), because he audibly shut his mouth, swallowing any unsavory retort he was prone to easily coming up with, and led the way without a word. Jim paid no mind to his disapproving frown.

The location itself was far from their killer’s usual routine, which in hindsight should have bothered Jim more than it did. Alas, he came completely unprepared for what awaited him at the top of the observatory.

It wasn’t really that much, certainly. Not as flashy as the crucified man or as livid as the god and his prayer, but there was something about this sight that greeted him, something malicious and vicious, that set him on edge and sent shivers down his spine.

A hooded figure laid prostrate on the floor, its posture rigid and somehow conveying the impression of a desperate, hopeless beggar with arms outstretched forward, palms flat on the stone floor. While obviously similar to the prayer from their killer’s previous scene, the message behind was strikingly different. Jim just couldn’t quite figure what it was.

Right in front of the figure, basked in sunlight streaming directly through floor-to-ceiling windows, was a stone not dissimilar to altar. On top of the stone was placed a human head. Male, ginger and scarred, of course. Its eyes were obscured by a tight black blindfold, as though the head couldn’t stand looking at the sinner, who begged for forgiveness and received none.

The expression on this face spoke of arrogant malevolence and distaste with a hint at condescending indulgence. It couldn’t have possibly belonged to a dying man.

“Facial muscles were rearranged postmortem, I’d bet,” Dr. Rosen confirmed his thoughts. “I’ll swipe for fingerprints, of course, but something tells me it will prove futile.”

“One can never guess where a serial murderer might slip up,” Jim objected without much conviction. “After all, they’re not your usual professional like Zcazs, they are bound to make a mistake somewhere.”

“Fair point,” the expert conceded. “Anyways, I haven’t dared to touch anything yet so you could take a look at the scene undisturbed, thus there isn’t much to tell at this point. The head had been severed with signature surgical precision, as far as I can tell, and the placement of the hood didn’t allow me to confirm whether or not it had been removed from this body.”

“Do it now,” Jim ordered. “I trust the photos have already been taken?”

“Of course,” the expert murmured absentmindedly, his undivided attention on the corpse that was apparently far more appealing than his ragged superior. Not that Jim could blame him; he found himself an unwelcome company these days as well.

Good doctor’s gloved hands unfolded the fabric without further ado, revealing a clear stump where head should have been. The only reason why the absence of the head hadn’t been evident earlier was another stone tucked neatly in its place under the hood, its color and structure similar to the altar’s to Jim’s untrained eye.

The expert recoiled, falling on his backside and staring vacantly at the stomp. Jim was hard pressed not to share the sentiment, barely able to stay on his legs himself.

The scene was truly frightening, in all its clinical, psychotic glory. An extremely clean cut without any remnants of blood or burns or whatever else it was that you required during amputation. Almost as if the missing limb had never been there in the first place.

Of course, Jim had never prided himself on his medical knowledge (mostly nonexistent), but he couldn’t shake the feeling of... unnatural perfection penetrating their culprit’s skills. And if Rosen’s reaction was anything to go by, this concern wasn’t exactly unfounded.

“Impossible,” said expert whispered hoarsely. With horror or awe, Jim couldn’t tell. “I bet you my diploma, this should not be possible at all. Too clean. I cannot fathom how hemorrhage was prevented, as there’s no burnt marks, nor ligature, nor even signs of freezing, judging by the tissue color. Not to mention the amputation itself. I assure you, an oscillating saw would never have left such an incision. It’s more like... I don’t know, a blade? Extremely sharp and solid, wielded expertly with superb strength and speed.”

Jim almost scoffed at the sheer ridiculousness of the statement, but caught himself before the scorn left his mouth. It wasn’t Dr. Rosen’s fault that the case left him befuddled. After all, he wasn’t the only one who saw the discrepancies and couldn’t make sense of them. Any rummaging through victims’ records, hospital staff registers, CCTV footage divulged nothing of importance, almost as though they were chasing a ghost.

His thoughts inadvertently turned to the last tidbit of information he was made privy to. He didn’t think it at first, but what if Strange had gone completely off the rails and became a serial killer? Everything he knew about former doctor’s personality and set of skills added up, except that he had no real reason for targeting Jerome, and through such a far-fetched pursuit, no less. But still, finding reasoning behind a mad man’s actions was ultimately futile, wasn’t it?

And who else? Lee was skilled enough, he supposed, but thinking of her in regard to these murders pained him and screamed wrongness. No, she wouldn’t do this. Nygma, on the other hand...

“You know what?” Dr. Rosen interrupted his contemplative thoughts. “I’ve just realized what all this reminds me of at last. Cadavers in anatomical theatre back at University, that’s what. All this clinical, impassive impression from the scenes. Haughty and mocking, yes, but still. Almost like they’re educating us.”

“Educating in what?” Jim regarded, refusing to dismiss an idea which sounded not exactly plausible in general, but keenly corresponding with his own.

“Why, in religious executions, I reckon,” the expert smirked. “Of _Malleus Maleficārum_ kind. What’s next, I wonder? Burning is out, of course, just like hanging. Wouldn’t do to damage these signature scars, now would it? Probably breaking on the wheel or something.”

“I hope not,” Jim clipped dryly. “You may transport the body now, I’ll see you at the precinct. Our chemist must have been brought in by now.”

“Chemist? Who-“ a heavy slam of the door didn’t allow his forensic expert to finish the obvious question. Jim didn’t even feel bad about leaving him in the dark quite rudely; he’d find out soon enough, anyway.

**JVJVJV**

The public was in uproar. People threw themselves at the ambulance approaching the precinct, as though they could seep through its thick walls and see the body inside. 

«What is the meaning of this... throng?” Jim asked when he finally managed to reach the entrance, as though he didn’t already know the answer.

“They are playing right into our murderer’s hands,” Harper muttered beside him. “And it’s not even that bad yet. Bullock had barely left Arkham’s premises when he called, as the crowd there is twice as large as this one. The city has gone crazy.”

“Understandable,” Jim sighed tiredly, dreading the upcoming migraine. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you shared their sentiment yourself when we first heard from this killer. These people are civilians who didn’t go through the same training, and they are terrified, thus it’s perfectly reasonable that they bought into sensationalist bullshit spread by Vale without acknowledging repercussions of such a choice.”

“Yes, but you were right!” she protested heatedly. “All these mutilated victims... We can’t just comply and let it slide!”

Jim took a deep breath, preparing himself to dissuade her worries, but was interrupted by all to familiar adolescent voice on the brink of adulthood.

“Captain Gordon!”

Startled, he turned in its general direction, not bothering to hide his surprise.

“Bruce? What are you doing here?”

The question, if a bit harsh, was entirely legitimate, as he hadn’t seen the boy in ages. No, not boy — somehow seemingly in a few weeks he hit a growth spurt and also managed to fill up quite nicely, turning into a charming young lad. _Such a heartbreaker_ , Jim thought fondly, overcome with almost fatherly pride.

Bruce frowned slightly, which abruptly directed Jim back on track.

“I’ve read the paper,” the Wayne heir confided, sounding deeply concerned. “Wanted to see how you are fairing, I guess. And offer any assistance you might require.”

“Assistance? I believe you did get dragged into more than enough life-threatening situations for someone your age, there’s no need to expose you to another one. Stay away from this, Bruce. I mean it.”

“What?!” he spluttered. “But I... you...”

“Master Bruce wanted to say that he is deeply concerned for Mr. Wilde’s, as well as other citizens’, wellbeing.” Alfred joined in, just as smooth and unnoticeable as always. Jim didn’t even have the energy to jump at his sudden appearance. The butler’s face was almost impenetrable, as per usual, except for a slight frown at the mention of Jeremiah’s alias.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce glared at him. “As I was saying, I _am_ capable of helping you. Surely you must acknowledge that Wayne Enterprises possesses vast resources and more advanced equipment. Use that at least if you don’t want me directly involved.”

“Master Bruce is also not opposed to the idea of showing his support of your policy in this regard at the upcoming Major’s gala.” It was Bruce’s turn to grimace at Alfred’s words.

“Alright, that’s enough! I don’t need any support during that dreadful fiddling at Rome’s pyre!” Jim snapped. His patience wore thin these days.

Bruce visibly recoiled with a hurt expression on his face, but Alfred was having none of this.

“I’m afraid it’s the only way I was able to persuade Master Bruce to attend the gala, Captain Gordon,” his British accent ran colder then usual, but no less calm and cordial.

Jim tensed and braced himself for an unpleasant confrontation that neither of them needed right now, but were nonetheless going to engage themselves in (only to feel awkward and sorry about it later). It never happened. Thankfully, fate seemingly decided that he got enough bullshit for the time being, as the proceedings were interrupted by Harvey, who timely burst in rather loudly, muttering to himself and sighing in relief. He had anxiously trembling Crane in tow.

“Jim!” Harvey exclaimed, ignoring the tense atmosphere like he was prone to do. “Thank god you’re here! What the hell is going on with all those people outside? We barely managed to make it in here.”

The question was rhetorical, of course, and Jim didn’t bother to answer. He had more pressing matters to attend to — like the looks of incredulous disbelief on Bruce’s and Alfred’s faces, matched by some fellow policemen who gathered in short distance, sensing upcoming dispute. And while he really didn’t have any patience to soothe any worries of the former two right about now, regardless of his deep affection, he had to deal with uneasiness of his coworkers if he wanted to make it through this investigation.

“Harvey, Mr. Crane!” Jim exclaimed, immediately cringing at overly forced cheerfulness in his own voice, which sounded so _wrong_. “I’m glad you’re both here still in one piece. Please, come down to the lab, I’ll be joining you as fast as I can manage.”

Bruce’s and Harper’s faces went slack.

“What?” they sputtered in unison, disbelief radiating heavy in the air.

“Is _this_ an expert you’ve promised us, Captain?” Harper added with growing realization, always quick on uptake. She’d definitely make an outstanding Captain or even Commissioner one day.

Harvey didn’t need any further incentive to excuse himself from an uncomfortable situation, just as Jim knew he wouldn’t, and was on his way in a second, urging Jonathan along. As soon as they rounded the corner, Jim was left alone with almost hostile looks from everyone around him.

Well, it’s not like he didn’t expect it.

“To answer your question, Harper, yes,” he began with as much confidence as he could muster. “We’ve reached an agreement with Commissioner, Arkham facility and Jonathan himself pertaining this investigation. There’s nothing to worry about, I assure you. I do believe it’s in his best interest to play along, and you can’t deny that his knowledge and talent is the best shot we got.”

Bruce spotted a contemplative frown, while Harper opened her mouth to argue, no doubt. However, he didn’t give her a chance and went on.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to check on our chemist. Please, send a subpoena for Edward Nygma, preferably for tomorrow. We need to show the people that we are doing something.”

With that said, he left, not in the mood for waiting until someone could get their bearings and stress him further. It was barely midday, and his headache was already killing him. He dearly hoped that no new bombs would be dropped on him today.


	7. V.II

The next couple of days seemed to pass at contradictory rate, both quickly because one could never have enough time to prepare for the next blow in situations such as this and slowly because that was what time tended to do when one was waiting.

Nothing bad happened during that time — the general populace still miraculously trusted Jim to an extent, which was further helped by no new bodies showing up. It was a nice change of pace for once, and Jim enjoyed it while it lasted, trying hard not to think how much it resembled stillness before the storm.

On the other hand, nothing good (or productive) happened either. Jonathan was working on discerning the concoction, but it was a slow process due to lack of fresh samples. Jim was disgusted with himself when his traitorous brain thought that a new body wouldn’t be amiss.

Today was the day when he could finally rub Nygma’s interrogation in faces of everyone who thought that police was doing nothing in regards to the maniac. He was almost looking forward to it, despite not actually believing the man was the one behind these crimes, truth be told.

He _could_ be, of course. Jim didn’t doubt for a second that his former colleague was more than capable of meticulously performing gruesome murders with utmost precision and symbolism. But alas, after the initial suspicion the idea didn’t take roots in his mind, and he wasn’t nearly petty enough to cajole the whole investigation at the expense of innocent lives.

This left Jim with the sole option of getting this pointless interrogation done and over with, making room for more important leads. Like goddamn Strange, for instance, whose location remained unknown despite his best efforts, albeit somewhere disconcertingly close to the doctor’s former domain.

To be honest, Jim couldn’t completely place the image of the killer on Strange’s face either, but he was still far more fitting to be the culprit than Nygma. Besides, it was a start. And the mad doctor needed to be put behind bars (or six feet under) regardless, anyway.

Jim sighed and rubbed his face, willing tiredness to go away. Times like this drew him mad, made him ponder on things best left at bay. When he wasn’t able to focus on any immediate work, he couldn’t help but think how this hellish city sucked him dry again and again. One danger after another, each one biting and chewing pieces of himself in its wake until one day nothing would remain.

Knock on the door thankfully drew him from this downward spiral. What had he been thinking, anyway? It’s not like he could _give up_ just because a case made him uncomfortable now and then.

Jim shook his head, getting rid of the last vestiges of his meltdown. In the meantime, whoever was on the other side of the door didn’t deign to wait any longer. The doorknob was turned and pushed, revealing the only one who actually had the guts to barge in without permission from the office’s grumpy occupant.

“Hey, Jim, you alright? It’s Nygma,” Harvey announced, sounding uncharacteristically troubled. “He didn’t come in here alone, though.”

“Oh,” Jim breathed through a sudden lump in his throat. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He donned his best self-assured mask and got up, starting towards the woman whom he loved and the man who basically killed their child, however indirectly. _Just get it done and out of the way_ , he reminded himself.

**JVJVJV**

All things considered, the interrogation went better then expected. Nygma, of course, correctly guessed the reason behind GCPD call, brought backup in form of Lee and several other Narrows inhabitants who confirmed his alibi, and that was it.

Seeing Lee hurt less than during their previous encounter, probably because she remained silent most of the time and avoided actively demonstrating her relationship with the suspect. Not to say that Jim wasn’t an emotional wreck by the end of it, but at least he managed to not lash out and stay outwardly calm and professional. A definite success in his books.

He was immensely relieved when the group finally left, though, and headed straight towards labs, not willing to wallow in his misery. One breakdown was more than enough for a day, thank you very much.

Jonathan, it seemed, hadn’t made any further progress, and Jim was desperate for something, _any_ thing, to latch onto instead of his own thoughts. He briefly considered pestering Crane until the scientist would finally tell what was bothering him, but decided against it. It couldn’t be something important, anyway. Probably his unfounded fear of return to Arkham due to lack of success again. Jim didn’t have energy for dealing with it at the moment.

Jim began to succumb to his unsavory thoughts when his unsaid prayers were answered. In fact, he barely caught himself before his enthusiasm about new scarred body could become visible, opting instead for appropriate grim determination. Finally, finally something to completely distract him from anything work-unrelated! Truly a blessing in disguise.

He sped towards the crime scene in his own car, not waiting for the team and doing his best to ignore how he felt about the murder. Though, by the time he reached his destination any untoward feelings were replaced by usual dread and heartbreaking sympathy for an innocent victim.

Apprehensive, he entered the dilapidated building (once again an abandoned warehouse; he had half a mind to propose taking down them all at that goddamned gala before any coherent thought fled his mind). The first thing he registered was a scarred face a couple of paces in front of him, roughly at his eye level. Almost as though it was meant to be so (it was a scary and presumptuous idea, and he vehemently shut it down).

The face was strangely turned upside down, and it took his sluggish brain several long seconds to catch up before his eyes trailed higher of their own volition. Then he abruptly threw up.

Heaving empty breathes, he finally registered other details too, like an abundance of footprints scattered around, clicking noises of camera shots, unsteady voices that couldn’t reach him through thick pressure in his ears and skull and eyes. Smells, too. Of blood and innards and bodily fluids. Of sickness, emanating from several piles of stomach contents similar to the one he just made himself. The air was heavy and oppressive with all of this, and he couldn’t _breathe_.

A hard slap on his shoulder made him jerk away in frenzy, almost slipping on his own vomit.

“-tain! Captain!” urgent voice pulled him out of whatever wretched place his mind shut itself into. “Jesus Christ, you’re a policeman, can’t you stomach a little gore?.. Probably not the best word choice I’ve ever made.”

It was Doctor Rosen in all his insensitive glory, of course. The forensic expert looked as put together as always, if only a little bit green in the face. The bastard certainly hadn’t retched all over active crime scene, and this thought provided comfort instead of ever-present irritation this time around. Jim leaned on the other man, seeking more of it in order to regain his stamina, any words being said not registering as more than unintelligible background noise. The muscular back under his arms — when had he enveloped the good doctor in a hug like they were best of pals? — stiffened.

Apparently, that’s when his lizard brain decided to kick back in. Jim abruptly pulled away, embarrassed and angry at himself, and did his best to appear as though nothing had just transpired at all. Dr. Rosen coughed, cleared his throat and smoothly picked up where he left off.

“As I was saying, this murder is completely opposite from the previous one, at least outwardly-“

“Very astute, thank you,” Jim couldn’t help but interrupt, making up for his momentary weakness. Such childishness earned him a withering glare, but it was totally worth it, as familiarity helped him breathe easier. The expert must have caught up on it, because he just sighed and went on, as though never cut off in the first place.

“However, the apparent messiness is but a rouse. The cut is swift and precise, most certainly geometrically accurate as well — I’ll be able to confirm it once the body is moved into the morgue. What I am saying is that it was _designed_ to look this way, likely a tribute towards Middle Ages. As far as I can recall, a simple saw was a common enough instrument to be used fairly often in less significant executions. There was quite a number of corpus delicti, though in this case it’s probably blasphemy. Or murder, for that matter, albeit it wasn’t exactly that much of a crime back then.”

“Your morbidity astounds me,” Jim commented dryly. He felt like he managed to regain as much of his composure as possible, given the situation at hand, and risked to look at the victim again.

Despite bracing himself for already somewhat familiar sight, he still couldn’t help but recoil, staggering slightly in face of such inhumane cruelty which one wouldn’t usually encounter outside of medieval engravings. This murder in particular seemed to come right out of one of those (in fact, Jim wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out that it did just that, matching some famous painting or something to the very detail). The victim was hanged upside down, his ankles skillfully strapped to a beam which looked to be a part of original construction for whatever reason. The body indeed created a perfect line perpendicular to the floor, retaining its general composure even with being almost cut in two, all the way from the groin and down to pectorals, the weapon leaving a messy and crude line.

At first it seemed too chaotic to be anything other than mindless savagery, what with raw edges and loose tendons sticking out now and then, but if one bothered to detach oneself from instinctive horror and disgust for a second, Dr. Rosen’s words immediately rang true. This was madness and gore, yes, but no savagery. The cut was as meticulous as ever, even more so, considering the amount of skill and patience that had to be applied. It was cruelty for the sake of it, definitely, but the intended recipient was not primarily the victim. Jim got a feeling that the killer focused more and more on tormenting the police instead.

Not to say that the poor young man didn’t suffer, though. His scarred face was contorted in pain; nothing like the first victims who at least got to die peacefully. There was no doubt in Jim’s mind that this one endured immense pain up until he couldn’t, and for what!? For some sick fuck’s idea of justice!?

He wasn’t so sure in that particular assessment anymore. Maybe in the beginning, before the murderer got a taste for it, but certainly not now. Even if they coveted and killed Jerome now, Jim didn’t think whoever they were would just stop. It was alarming how little it took for a human being to regress to such mental state, but they probably had it in them all along and just needed a little push. Or not so little, as their identity and therefore any background remained no more known than weeks ago.

Jim resolutely pushed those thoughts aside and once again trailed his gaze upwards from the victim’s face to his abdomen. The bloody innards and body fluids splattered dangerously on the verge of collapsing outwards, but miraculously remained put, and something long dismissed and forgotten kept nagging at him from the back of his mind.

“Find me the image this mayhem was designed after,” he said at long last, because with each passing moment he got only more sure of it. “With any luck it would be something obscure enough to give us a goddamned lead. I refuse to let this madness continue for much longer if I can help it. We ought to put a stop to it.”

“Sure thing, Captain,” The expert replied with his usual sarcasm, apparently fed up on being considerate. To be honest, though, Jim probably would have reacted similarly to someone sprouting around useless righteous catchwords. “Glad you’re finally back with us.”

Jim glared at him, but opted out of saying anything. He had loads of work to do.

**JVJVJV**

The image turned out to be a fairly common illustration to witch hunts, which Jim refused to feel disappointed about, because better a dead end than a loose one. Thankfully, another current matter seemed to be coming along smoothly. Jonathan made some significant progress on his front, just as Jim hoped he would.

However, despite the apparent breakthrough the boy looked even more twitchy and troubled than before, which didn’t make any sense. If he was worried about being sent back to Arkham and thus becoming their guinea pig, then his fears should have abated, which was obviously not the case. Did he think that he would end up there anyway as soon as the GCPD didn’t have any more use for him? Somehow, Jim doubted it. There was something else at play.

Did Crane perhaps recognize some colleague’s work, however that could be accomplished? If so, why didn’t he share anything? Surely there wasn’t any love lost between himself and those who shared his field of interest. And despite what he did for Jerome, the boy didn’t strike Jim as a type to take pleasure in mindless carnage and people suffering.

Was this it, then? Did he fear for Jerome’s safety out of some misplaced belief that it could be compromised once he divulged what he knew? After all, his loyalty to the madman was unmistakable.

But no, Jim was almost sure that wasn’t the case either. There had to be something else, something he couldn’t see no matter how hard he tried rearranging pieces this way and that. The picture remained incomplete, and any amount of careful questioning didn’t seem to have any effect on Jonathan whatsoever. He probably didn’t even notice Jim’s gentle probing.

There were harsher methods, of course, but he couldn’t very well sanction use of any form of interrogation based on illogical hunch, now could he? He probably didn’t have to, considering his working environment, but then how would he remain an example to all these people if he himself wandered dangerous waters of unlawful actions, with or without good intentions? There were only so many times one was able to enter shady world of grays instead of blacks and whites and venture back mostly intact.

He continued pondering on that while he descended down to the labs on his semi-regular check-up with Jonathan. The excuse of wanting to see any progress firsthand was clumsy at best, considering he would be immediately alerted, but it seemed to be working so far. In truth he kept hoping that this time he would finally catch a glimpse of what was really bothering the chemist, or better yet, hear it out loud, and refused repetitive failures to deter him.

This time was indeed different from the very beginning, because he heard muffled voices all the way from the stairs. It wasn’t that unusual in itself, as some personnel dared to strike a conversation with known insane criminal on occasion, though not exactly often, but the second voice didn’t belong to Dr. Rosen or any of the lab assistants, and that was strange. Jim couldn’t help but tense a bit in preparation and quiet his steps to the best of his ability. As he grew closer, he noticed the aggressive manner in which the second person with somewhat familiar voice addressed Jonathan. God, please not an angry victim again.

He entered the room carefully, mindful of opening the door. After all, he didn’t want to alert anyone, especially not the intruder, to his presence before he managed to get a gist of what was happening. What greeted him... he certainly wasn’t expecting it. None other than Bruce Wayne was towering over Jonathan, who seemed to wish to be anywhere but there at the moment. Well, except for Arkham, Jim amended. Neither one noticed him, thus giving much needed chance to clear it all up.

Not that it turned out to be useful. They seemed to discuss chemical compounds and such, things that Jim wasn’t even remotely familiar with, and all too soon he lost any semblance of sense. That was really a shame, considering how the happenings quickly escalated almost to the brink of physical violence.

Naturally, that was Jim’s clue to interrupt. He didn’t understand most of what was being said anyway, what was the point of lingering any longer? He cleared his throat, waited for a bit, then did it again louder, straining his vocal chords.

The effect was instantaneous. The men jumped, clearly not expecting anyone to intrude on their private conversation. When they turned towards him, both looked frightened, which cemented Jim’s suspicions about something untoward going on right in front of him.

A sickening thought entered his mind, unbidden and definitely unwelcome, and he squashed it without hesitation. No, it wasn’t possible! How could he consider it even for a briefest moment? That was just ridiculous. Bruce couldn’t be that cold-hearted monster the whole department was fruitlessly chasing around.

Jim must have misunderstood something and jumped to conclusions, like he tended to do at times. It wasn’t such a stretch to believe, considering he hadn’t understood most of conversation. He just had to clear it now and get back to contemplating real suspects. Surely Bruce would be willing to explain himself.

It turned out, Bruce wasn’t. After receiving no immediate answer, Jim ushered the boy out of the lab and tried again on their way to exit, but still got nothing. The awful suspicion, still fresh in his mind, refused to completely go away after that no matter how vehemently he tried to get rid of it.

A quick detour back down to the labs to interrogate still pretty shaken Jonathan revealed nothing new, just as he feared, and Jim locked himself in his office, brooding and spluttering at nothing in particular. The unbidden thought was left to fester and grow in relative peace, as he finally gave up on uprooting it.

Now all the tiny insignificant details added up, giving birth to monstrosity that was apparently his new theory. After all, he wasn’t a policeman, and a good one at that, for nothing, even if it pained him at times.

Bruce’s deep knowledge in chemistry, his mood swings, something violent underneath the surface that had been kept in check most of times up until it wasn’t, his intellect and resources, it all added up. The boy with a violent past and no family bar his butler, the boy who was fit and trained in combat and who knows what else, who stayed away from other kids, even going as far as opting for homeschooling to avoid them. One didn’t need to receive medical training at an university these days, not with online courses and YouTube tutorials available. Bruce’s blossoming, judging by Alfred’s expression, friendship with another recluse with questionable sanity didn’t play in his favor either.

But wouldn’t someone have at least noticed by now if this was the truth, however horrific? Alfred was a fair man, he wouldn’t condone such actions even if the one behind them was his ward, and he was perceptive enough to register and interpret the clues. On the other hand, people could easily become willfully ignorant towards those whom they loved, especially if they didn’t have anyone else left. No, Alfred wouldn’t see it until he literally stumbled upon Bruce butchering a corpse.

“God!” Jim shuddered. “Am I really considering it?”

But once he started, he couldn’t just stop. More and more little facts added up, leaving him in scrambles.

Not Alfred then. What about Jeremiah? His judgement couldn’t be that clouded by this point, he _would_ have noticed... and then what? Despite his profession, Jim wanted to see the best in people, he truly did, but sometimes he just wasn’t able to bring himself to, and this was one of those rare cases. Jeremiah Waleska (or Xander Wilde, as he preferred) was by no means a good person. Perhaps the only thing that kept him from venturing into the world of crime was the image of his hated brother.

Would such a person who effortlessly disregarded others alert the police if he noticed something about his only friend? Unfortunately, Jim didn’t think so. He remembered their first meeting down in the bunker and how nothing he said had any effect on the man’s resolve, up until the point when Bruce chimed in and changed his mind with a couple of well-places words. Jeremiah took a liking to him immediately. In hindsight, perhaps it was one more sign that something wasn’t quite right with the Wayne heir.

No, Jeremiah wouldn’t prioritize countless innocent lives over one that mattered to him personally. And that conclusion left Jim with a sound, if insane, theory and a deep feeling of despair.

He suddenly remembered how Jeremiah looked nervous during the entirety of Jim’s impromptu visit despite his smug tone and constant assurances that he wouldn’t be harmed. His confidence didn’t seem at all empty back then, but Jim chalked it up to his arrogance. How could he not, when he didn’t have any reason to suspect something far more sinister at play?

Jeremiah also referred to the maniac as ‘he’, which Jim didn’t register at the moment. Probably dismissed it as a usual assumption on part of those who didn’t have any experience with serial killers beyond media coverage, as if Jeremiah’s genius would allow for such an oversight. Now though, it painted a different picture altogether, the one that he desperately didn’t want to examine.

Jim lowered his head on the table with a loud thud and cursed his decision to come in this hellish city all those years ago for the umpteenth time. No matter. He would get to the bottom of it, even if the conclusion threatened to shatter him beyond repair.

It wasn’t like he had any solid evidence anyway. Just some inane speculations, and he knew better than to relay on such fickle things. In the meantime, he probably ought to take Bruce up on his offer, and if it allowed him to spend more time in the kid’s company, well, it was just a bonus.

For the rest of the day Jim didn’t accomplish anything, alienating between denial and helpless rage. In the end he just had to go home significantly earlier than usual and spent his evening determinedly getting drunk.


	8. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably ought to warn you that there’s gonna be a couple of brief mentions of suicide (both historical and much more recent, though the second is unfulfilled and reconciled). If it triggers you, proceed with caution.

It’s a perfect location – isolated, far away from most people or thoroughfares. Of course it is, as he’s chosen and prepared it even more carefully than per usual. Not that those morons could ever hope to catch him, of course, considering they haven’t noticed his obvious mistake a couple of bodies ago, but still. It wouldn’t do for any silly nuisance to disturb him whilst he works. 

This one is special, after all.

He gently lowers still paralyzed subject in between generously distributed flowers (Stars-of-Betlehem; he is confident that the police will interpret his meaning differently once again and takes no small amount of pride in this fact), mindful of their fragile petals. Straightens and steps back, waiting for the subject to regain consciousness with all the patience he’s able to muster. Admittedly, it’s not much nowadays.

Yes, he is self-aware enough to at least register his ever increasing lapses and crevices in previously perfectly tailored person-suit, but not enough to actually put in effort to remedy that. To be honest, he’s not even sure there is something that can be done about it at this point. Surprisingly, he isn’t as frightened by the perspective of his impending reveal as much as he used to think he would. There aren’t that many things that scare him anymore.

He takes a deep breath, envisioning himself stripped of all lies and pretenses, standing proudly amidst the chaos that is sure to erupt once it happens, and can’t help but giggle dazedly. The sound is demented even to his own ears, which only urges him to laugh louder.

The subject’s eyelashes flatter, which is the only sign that it must be awakening. This one has some semblance of training for such situations then. Someone important, perhaps?

No matter. Even if the manhunt is going to grow tenfold in its severity after this, he’ll still remind invisible to all the idiots who are hopelessly chasing him without a single chance at success.

“Oh, stop playing unconscious, will you? Don’t be shy!” he singsongs, delighted when its eyes immediately fly open. He smiles widely, relishing in the fear that simmers in those gorgeous pale green orbs, their shade tantalizingly close to original’s.

The subject adopts a look of immense concentration, visibly powering through his overwhelming emotions. Must be attempting to move then.

Alas, it doesn’t even stir. After all, he has been very thorough whilst preparing his concoction (still unknown, despite Jonathan Crane’s help!). The fear in its gaze intensifies.

“Do not fret, my dear,” he coos adoringly, bending down to caress the side of its almost perfect face with his gloved hand. “It all will be over soon, you won’t even feel a thing, I promise. I even added extra something to the tranquilizer I injected you with, just to improve your blood flow. Ain’t I benevolent and accommodating?” he smiles proudly, indulgently, floating on the exquisite high that its emotions provide him with. “This way you’ll pass away quicker, therefore rendering risk of any negative sensations to almost nonexistent.”

He bows lower still, sniffing the unmistakable aroma of prey, rich and almost tangible on his tongue. Reigning himself in and not licking the feverish skin that glistens so close, a mere breath away, takes some effort, but he is nothing if not self-composed. He straightens up again with a little reluctance, mindful of his timing. His chosen location is secure enough that he doesn’t expect to be disturbed, but it doesn’t mean he can indulge indefinitely. There are other matters to attend to, after all, although they seem less and less meaningful with each passing day.

He picks up the blade, mesmerized by its unholy gleam in fading sunlight, and turns to his subject with a smile.

“Have you ever heard of seppuku, my dear?” he offers conversationally. “If not, we are about to brush up your knowledge. You see, for centuries Japanese nobles were fond of this means to take their useless lives in this manner, as if it would absolve them from their perceived dishonors. Pathetic, isn’t it? Anyway, there used to be a similar practice in Middle Ages, so I hope it won’t be too confusing for our dear friend Jim Gordon and his cohort of simpletons.

“You don’t get it, love?” he frowns mockingly, gliding towards the subject (which seemed frightened out of its mind), and whispers conspiratorially. “To be honest, me neither. They somehow convinced themselves that I am some sort of modern witch hunter who daily prays to Cramer and Sprenger and diligently follows in their footsteps. That’s downright ridiculous, I tell you.

“And somewhat insulting. Don’t they think I have a mind of my own? It’s not that I expected much from them to begin with, of course, but our honorable GCPD still managed to surprise me. It’s a shame that their only intelligent asset turned out to be a bidding maniac himself and was apprehended, really.

“Damn, I’m blabbering now, am I not? Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry for unintended delay,” he smiles apologetically and without further ado plunges the blade into the subject’s warm abdomen, ripping it open in steady upward motion. He gets stuck on the ribs, but doesn’t relent. Instead he presses harder, using momentum from his other hand, and the obstacle budges.

One by one the bones forming chest cavity crack open, sticking outwards, until he finally stops just below the collarbones. The subject wheezes (or tries to, anyway, as his concoction’s effect still haven’t worn off), but he pays it no heed, captivated by rapidly beating heart.

Almost in a daze, he untangles his dominate hand from its firm grasp on the blade, carefully wraps it around pulsating organ and _lifts_.

Gods, this is what he has been waiting for. Not the blood, not the organs falling freely out of the widening cut (which is admittedly pretty, of course, but not nearly enough). No, what he longed for, what he _craved_ for probably his whole life is something different entirely. The absolute, sheer terror as it sees its own heart pumping wildly in his hand.

Captivating. Delicious. Beautiful.

He lets himself relish in this pure bliss for couple of moments longer, his power over this insect, over _the whole world_ radiating in waves. And then _squeezes_.

It’s over in a heartbeat. Nevertheless, he keeps staring into subject’s dulled eyes which now will forever blessedly reflect its all encompassing fear of death, of _him_. He just can’t help it. His brain has slowed down to around or slightly above average capacity, he believes, allowing him to bask in the afterglow for a while.

He is high on endorphins roaring in his bloodstream, making him giddy and light-headed. It’s better than sex or alcohol or drugs, it’s the best sensation he’s ever experienced, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything, even his freedom if it ever comes down to that. He won’t give up his new life and return to that dreary, pitifully dull existence he’d led before he finally gave in to something that had always been inside of him, begging to be unleashed. Life is so much better when you stop struggling with yourself and embrace all your faults, turning them into your strengths. He cannot comprehend how he’d managed resisting that long.

As he slowly comes down from his unmatched euphoria, he starts to process outside world again. The subject’s blood has long since ceased to gush plentifully, reduced to a sluggish coagulating stream instead. Perfect. He won’t have much trouble with face-carving now.

As he’s never been one to sit idly around, he proceeds to do just that. The motions are familiar, long since perfected, and they soothe any remaining giddiness until he is once again as composed and put together as ever. Alas, he cannot wait until he gets to experience this again. He probably ought to give the esteemed Captain Gordon a break, he knows, but the alternative is just so tempting...

A sudden noise, half-sob and half-cry, spooks him. He swirls in its direction, inadvertently pressing on the final cut harsher than intended. He can’t bring himself to care right now, considering that there’s a goddamned _eye-witness_.

He hears the shuffle of panicked steps towards the only exit and springs into action. How the fuck has someone ended up in there of all places is beyond him. The warehouse was abandoned and remote, completely out of the way for any criminals or law-abiding citizens — he’s chosen it for a reason, after all.

It’s a goddamned kid, judging by the outfit and tangling limbs. Probably decided to off himself in peace and chose this location for the very same advantages. It’s no matter now, though. The fucking devil’s spawn managed to get lost with surprising speed, and he stays there, frozen, as though awaiting for Gordon’s arrival like a lamb for slaughter.

He forcibly shakes himself out of his stupor, contemplating the best course of action. First things first, he needs to get the hell out of here; anything else comes afterwards.

Mind made up, he starts towards his car, then abruptly remembers his collectible blade which now lays discarded on the floor and decides to risk coming back to pick it up. Just as he closes the door of his inconspicuous car, willing futilely for his blood-coated hands to stop shaking, he hears the police sirens. Damn those fools for being quick to respond for once!

Taking deep calming breathes, he strips of his bloody garments, placing them into extra garbage bag (the first one remains at the crime scene, and he curses himself; his only reprieve is that there shouldn’t be any fingerprints on it, but right now he isn’t exactly certain of much of anything). Resolutely pushing his deep-rooted terror aside, he swipes all the blood from door handles on both sides, then from his blades, putting them into their respective sheathes afterwards, and concentrates on the next task at hand. He somehow needs to slip to safety unnoticed by either police or street cameras.

“You are pathetic, get over this already,” he berates himself, staring intently into rear view mirror. “It’s just a walk in a park, really, child’s play.”

His unfortunate word choice brings to the forefront of his mind that fucking kid who dared to ruin his only salvation, more so, risk his untimely exposure, all when he was _so close_! He can feel it, his goal almost there, soon enough he’ll be able to taste it!

How long has that sorry excuse for a human being been there? How much has it seen? Not anything of value, judging by its reaction. He wore a hood obscuring his features, not to mention all the protective gear that would make discerning him nigh impossible. Moreover, he hasn’t spoken aloud for a while, which takes voice recognition out of equation too. Thus, he must be perfectly safe from any legal pursuit for now.

Doesn’t mean that he won’t hunt down and kill that kid, though.

Taking a shuddering breath, he starts the engine and carefully rearranges his escape route to avoid the police on top of all the street cameras, then braces himself and pushes the pedal. For the rest of his ride he can’t help but flinch at every corner, though, and hates himself for it even more.

Finally in the safety of his own home, he doesn’t fare much better, constantly checking on upcoming police squadrons. There aren’t any, of course, and he knows there won’t be, but logic, his perfect years-old companion, fades in the light of spiraling madness, and he is once again that child who was hopeless in its face.

His traitorous body aches for alcohol to dull his senses, but he knows he can’t risk it, not now, and so he descends further and further down into the ugly roaring of his own mind, unable to control himself. Sleepless night embraces him like a dear friend.

**JVJVJV**

“Fuck, Jim!” Harvey’s voice sounded desperate and frantic even through the weak phone connection. He’d just entered his small apartment after long hours at the precinct, as he had to stay back, eagerly waiting for Jonathan to finally decipher the goddamned concoction in feat of sudden inspiration after a few days of little to no success, but the unknown genius’s secrets didn’t relent and thus they called it a day, boneless from exhaustion. Nevertheless, he instantly snapped to attention now, shaking off any traces of tiredness.

“What is it? What happened?” he asked, weary, but just as frantic as his friend. He hadn’t heard him sound like this since the hostage situation with both Bruce and Jeremiah Valeska alongside Gotham’s prominent figures, and this fact alone immediately set his teeth on edge.

“It’s the Carver,” Harvey replied, spatting distastefully that stupid monicker developed by the press as though something immensely foul. “We’ve got a witness this time, anonymous call. Sounded like a frightened to his guts teenager. Not that I could blame him, of course — poor kid stumbled upon the killer in the middle of his work. I’ve already sent here all the available cars, we might even get to catch the bastard. You coming?”

“You kidding? Text me the address!”

“Right away, Captain,” his interlocutor grunted before ending the call.

Jim was closing the front door in a heartbeat, as he luckily didn’t have to grab anything on his way out, and pushed the ignition just as he heard the incoming text message. He checked the address, which didn’t turn out to be too far, and sped towards it as fast as he could.

By the time he reached the place (once again a warehouse, of course, this one even better isolated than usual) it was already bursting with life. The night was alit by flashlights and numerous vehicles, including an ambulance, which meant that they were too late to save the poor victim. People ran this way and that, coordinated by Harvey, who stood tall and determined with walky-talky in hand. Fuck, the perp had likely managed to escape by now.

Jim briskly stomped to his friend and asked for any updates without wasting their time on useless pleasantries.

“Nothing. I guess we lost him,” Harvey replied dejectedly. “And the victim was long dead by the time the firs responders got there. Dr. Rosen believes it happened even before that kid stumbled upon the scene, as one of the cuts on the guy’s face is deeper and messier than usual, likely because of the sudden disturbance. Not that it helped us any. The only other sign of the killer being spooked is an empty garbage bag without prints. The bastard seems nearly infallible.”

“We might still find something useful,” Jim weakly tried to reassure him. “The team has been here for what, half an hour? Surely there must be some evidence, considering that our perp was definitely interrupted in the middle of his ritual. Nobody is free from making mistakes, especially when they are spooked, seen and thus frightened. They are bound to slip now, that’s for sure.”

The forgotten walky-talky blipped, and Jim parted from Harvey, leaving him to coordinating searching troops with a brief “I’ll be inside”. With his previous dread steadily gathering back at the forefront of his mind he went into the building, momentarily relieved when he didn’t catch an unpleasant sight immediately upon entry. He then proceeded in the direction of two very familiar voices — Harper’s and Dr. Rosen’s. The pair appeared to be arguing.

As he came nearer, the words became easily distinguished, and the obvious meaning behind them did nothing to lessen Jim’s dread.

“Harakiri!”

“Seppuku!”

“Harakiri!”

“Seppuku!”

“I said harakiri!”

“Sep- Wait, why does it even matter? I’m pretty confident there used to be a similar practice in medieval Europe, and we ought to concentrate on that instead of this meaningless argument!”

“That’s not the point-“

“I believe I’ve just heard the voice of reason,” Jim decided he’d had enough. “Thank you, Doctor. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be glad to have your input on something actually pertaining to the case.”

Harper gave a start, just noticing him there, whilst the forensic expert didn’t show any outward reaction except for a pleased twist of his lips.

“Captain!” the woman almost squealed, flashing bright crimson. Her partner just nodded and stepped aside, revealing the bizarre scene behind.

There laid the victim, straightened like a taut string, a pained, terrified expression on his face. The killer left him gutted, filleted open like a fish with his innards on display for all the world to see, but that wasn’t the most disturbing part. Even what used to be the human heart, ripped out, crashed and put atop his disemboweled stomach, wasn’t that. The exuberance of honest to got _flowers_ commandeered all attention. There were so many of them that the body appeared to be flowing, and somehow this picture was even worse that the murder itself.

“Cause of death is... erm... heart failure, for lack of a better term,” Dr. Rosen chose to begin, probably noticing that Jim had took everything in and now just stared at the goddamned scattered flowers. “Rigor mortis is yet to completely set in, which places time of death as less than two hours ago.

“Judging by the usual postmortem injuries, the perp was spooked whilst inflicting this particular cut,” he gestured at the one that was placed just under the jaw and frankly didn’t look any different from its brethren, but then again, Jim never claimed to be an expert in this sort of thing.

“The angle is different,” Harper helpfully supplied, reading right through him.

“Exactly. It suddenly changed right there,” the good doctor gestured again, almost touching skin with his latex-gloved finger, “going deeper and a little wayward. Our previous encounters with this killer suggest that he’d never make such a clumsy mistake on his own.”

“Yes, it’s a male,” Harper effortlessly took the reigns again, seeing Jim’s expression. Come to think of it, Harvey also already referred to the perp as such, but he overlooked it then. “Confirmed by the witness. Unfortunately, the kid was in no state to supply us with more details. His number is being tracked down as we speak.”

“Good job,” Jim replied, this time totally meaning it. The officer smiled proudly in return.

“Yeah, she’s also arranged for the CCTV footage to be extracted in the morning,” Dr. Rosen joined in, looking almost offended by lack of appreciation of his hard work. “Back to the body, if you may. I suppose there ain’t anything else relevant at this point, though I preserved and sent back to the lab a blood sample for your genius extraordinaire, who is probably woken and headed there by now. Time is of the essence, you see, as we mustn’t waste our chance with such a fresh sample. I can’t imagine us getting quite as lucky again in the future.

“There was also a simple garbage bag discarded nearby, at first glance untouched, but I’ll check it thoroughly, of course, once I am more equipped. This blood patter over there,” he gestured at the long line-shaped trace of coagulated blood, “implies that there laid a weapon with a 7-8-inch blade, slightly curved, that was picked up in a haste. In case that the killer came back for it after the unsuccessful chase — yes, there was one, as you may have noticed from several blood prints on the way outside from here — we might extract a few traces of second DNA from this pool, if he’d already discarded his gloves by the time he made it back. It also suggests that the weapon in question was either collectible and therefore recognizable, or of great sentimental value. Probably the former, considering this person’s practicality, so I’d check the private collections for anything matching the description if I were you. Add to it that it must be thin, extremely sharp, double-edged and with a pointed tip capable of easily piercing skin. The steel itself has to be immensely solid too, as it penetrated the bones with little to no extra effort.”

He paused for a moment, seemingly mentally cataloguing his words in search of anything remiss, finding nothing, and Jim was quick to say his piece before the assault of information could begin anew.

“That was incredibly in-depth, thank you. Though if you don’t mind, Doctor, I’d like to receive a written compilation of this weapon’s properties as soon as possible to start the search, as my memory is regretfully not that good. Do you have anything else to tell us?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” the expert rewarded him with a pitying glance, most probably regarding his abilities. “That’s all for now concerning the body and possible traces, you’ll get the rest in my report. I suppose that leaves us with the flowers. These beauties, Captain, are Ornithogalum arabicum, one of the most common species of Ornithogalum, better known as Star-of-Bethlehem. They aren’t native to the area, so it’s another lead. First mentioned in the biblical account of, as you may guess, birth of Jesus.

“The reference is obvious, though I have a hard time understanding how that event might possibly relate to one of less popular medieval executions. It also symbolizes atonement and reconciliation, but that makes even less sense. Surely our serial killer experiences nothing of the sort, considering sheer number of victims.”

“Yeah, surely,” Jim echoed, trailing off towards the end as something bagged at the back of his mind. He spent several moments trying to catch the fleeting thought, but in the end just gave up. If it was important it would pop up eventually, he believed. For now there were more pressing matters, and he desperately needed coffee if he aimed to make it through the busy day ahead of him.

**JVJVJV**

Several hours later Jim still hadn’t got a moment to himself to simply sit and take a breath. One thing came after another, and he just couldn’t get off that hamster wheel. First the search parties, thankfully mostly handled by Harvey who was in charge of the night shift, kept coming back empty handed, then they finally received CCTV footage from each and every nearby location, though later it became clear that miraculously none of them caught any fleeing vehicle whatsoever, strengthening that ridiculous belief in something almost supernatural and thus unstoppable, like a force of nature. Jim himself knew, of course, that with right timing and precision it was more than possible to avoid being spotted, but this knowledge didn’t make the whole ordeal any less disconcerting.

While his team perused the seemingly endless loads of footage, he took it upon himself to speak to the witness, a sixteen-year-old from a troubled family, not really knowing what he’d do if the description of their perp would point at Bruce. To better or worse, though, the kid didn’t turn out to be much of help due to poor light and excessive clothing of the criminal, including a hood. All that the poor teenager was able to gather amounted to average height, slender built and of course gender, and that was it. The only positive outcome was his visible abandonment of the whole ‘killing himself’ business (not that he actually admitted to the real reason behind him appearing at that wretched warehouse, but Jim hadn’t been on the force for all these years for nothing).

After that Jim exchanged information, or lack thereof, with his team who at the time still diligently studied the footage, briefly considered partaking in their activity, ultimately deciding against it, checked on Jonathan, who looked like the very definition of a crazy scientist (and didn’t reveal any signs of sleep deprivation, which Jim couldn’t help but envy him for), then picked up Dr. Rosen’s description of the blade on his way back and distributed it between Harper and a couple of rookies whom he tasked with quietly investigating that lead. He stoically braved through everyone’s complains on their killer’s sneakiness after the rest of the videos was examined, not really sharing their indignation — he expected as much, after all.

Then he assigned another couple of newbies with checking out florists — mostly just for the sake of it, as he didn’t truly believe that their meticulous perpetrator would ever leave such an obvious trace.

All the while he deliberated on something possibly foolish, namely interrogating Jeremiah in regards to Bruce. On one hand, he risked alerting the possible suspect of the fact that the police picked up on his trail, on the other, he could glimpse the truth from Bruce’s seemingly closest friend.

Not that he doubted Jeremiah’s skills, especially after all those encounters with Jerome who somehow appeared to be more honest and raw than his supposedly ‘good’ sibling. Jeremiah was a superb actor when it suited his purposes, though most of the time he couldn’t be bothered to pretend. Downside of being an anxious recluse with aversion to human company, Jim supposed.

No, the law-abiding brother would never answer truthfully or reveal anything of import, but what if he was completely unprepared for the assault? What if Jim once again came without a warning and took him by surprise? That way he could be sure whether or not the one he was chasing after was in fact Bruce. The risk was worth it.

Mind made up, he quickly gathered his things, not willing to linger on it any longer in case he talked himself out of his admittedly foolish plan. Though to be fair, he could always blame his sleepless night and general months-old tiredness afterwards, when — _if_ — it all somehow backfired at them all.

The drive towards the outskirts of Gotham wasn’t a long one, most probably due to wide-spread uneasiness across the city which resulted in nearly empty streets. One could argue that locals were used to criminals and villains of all sorts by now, or at least felt safe enough in this situation if they weren’t matching the killer’s type, but apparently not.

Well, it’s not like Jim could judge them — he himself knew better than to assume that their new monster wouldn’t spiral down a psychotic break, during which he wouldn’t care all that much about meticulously picking his victims, at any given moment.

He exited his car and leisurely strolled to the entrance, trying to convey an air of harmless, nonthreatening nonchalance. After all, he knew perfectly well that the elaborate camera structure set up by the paranoid engineer had to long since pick up on him approaching. He didn’t want to spook or aggravate Jeremiah before they even started, now did he?

He pressed the ring and waited, his posture as calm and open as he could manage. Whilst he stood there, he mentally ran over his unanswered questions for the final time. Did Jeremiah, by any chance, already know what happened earlier that day? Did Bruce really trust him this far (if it was, of course, Bruce)? He didn’t know, but surely hoped he was going to find out.

The Jeremiah that greeted him looked tired and closed-off, and even more reserved than usual. Besides, he was a little paler and somewhat sunken. Of course, the changes weren’t that unsubtle and individually could easily be explained away, but together they projected an entirely different picture from Jeremiah during their last encounter. This one looked almost frightened, too, though that could arguably be attributed to his general uneasiness in face of the maniac, especially if he somehow managed to get his hands on more information than common public had access to, as opposed to his fear for Bruce’s freedom in particular.

Nevertheless, now of all times Jim couldn’t take any chances. He had to make sure, just _had to_ , otherwise he risked driving himself insane with all these plaguing doubts. There was simply no other way for him to continue functioning.

And so he gathered himself, flashed what he hoped to be a friendly smile, and warmly greeted the man who very well might have been an accomplice to one of the most horrific serial killers Jim ever came across, including information on some notorious figures from recent history.

“Good afternoon, Captain Gordon,” Jeremiah replied without any trace of hostility. “How may I be of help to you today?”

And just like that, Jim threw out of the window any and all carefully crafted scenarios, some of which were the very definition of subtlety, and promptly offered; “I’d like to talk about Bruce Wayne. I hear you two are great friends nowadays.”

“Bruce? What about him?” his interlocutor frowned for a moment, looking genuinely puzzled, and then seemingly came to some unpleasant conclusion, as his frown deepened. “Is this that ‘bad influence’ nonsense again? I assure you, I am nothing like my brother, and I have no intention of harming him in any way.”

“Again?”

“Oh, so you didn’t come all this way on behalf of his butler? Alfred, was it? Yes, I do believe that’s what his name is.”

Jim must have shown his befuddlement somehow, because right then Jeremiah’s face cleared from all traces of defensive anger.

“Please forgive me, Captain, I shouldn’t have presumed worst,” he amended smoothly, apologetically, and then adopted that expression of helpless puzzlement again. “But if not that, what did you intend to bring up?”

It could be Jim’s clue to discard silly notions of Bruce’s involvement in the case, if not for his awareness of Jeremiah’s acting skills and the fact that he gave no indication of even contemplating inviting his guest inside. Jim had to continue his pursuit further, then.

“Well,” he began awkwardly, and pushed past the warning bells that almost rendered him deaf, “you see, I was compiling some facts and came to a sudden, very appalling conclusion. Haven’t you noticed anything unusual about Bruce these past few weeks?”

“No?” Jeremiah replied, though it sounded more like question than actual answer. He still wasn’t comprehending what this was about, or mimicked his confusion extremely well. “What are you-“

“Considering your childhood experience, doesn’t his behavior remind you of something? Aggravate any old wounds, perhaps?”

The moment Jeremiah caught up on what was implied was clearly visible. Somewhat inordinately proudly Jim thought that nobody else had ever had a chance to witness Jeremiah Valeska absolutely dumbstruck, all composure forgotten. For several moments he just stood in front of him, speechless, his mouth uncharacteristically hang open, before he regained his bearings.

Somewhat.

“What? It’s impossible!” Jeremiah wheezled in between hysterical laughter. “I assure you, there’s no way! You must be wrong! No, no, not Bruce! Anyone but him, no, you are being ridiculous! Not Bruce!”

In a matter of seconds the prideful engineer was reduced to a blabbering mess, and Jim hadn’t got a first clue as to what to do. So he watched Jeremiah Valeska breaking down right in front of him, feeling thoroughly out of his depth. Was it genuine? And if so, to what extent? Had he really mistakingly convinced himself that the boy whom he saw as someone akin to a son was a serial killer, or did Jeremiah’s state now in fact confirm his suspicions, considering it might very well be the evidence of the engineer’s shattered denial of irrefutable truth?

One way or another, he couldn’t be sure in either of those options. All of this was a stupid, thoughtless mistake. He came for the answers, but received none, instead probably making the whole situation even worse. In hindsight, he shouldn’t have done it at all. Surely there was another, better way to clear his thoughts on the matter than this.

Lost in his own head, he hadn’t even noticed when Jeremiah got a hold of himself and calmed down. Truth be told, his musings managed to lead him so far away that he almost jumped, startled, when his ears caught the sound of Jeremiah’s voice, which appeared a little shaken, but altogether admiringly composed for someone who had been on the verge of hyperventilating mere moments ago.

“He admires you, you know,” he quietly said. “Helds in ridiculously high regard, even despite your shortcomings. That’s the only reason he won’t hear from me about your foolhardy notions, because as his friend, I don’t wish to see him heartbroken. Though if you don’t give up on them, consider my generosity revoked. I know your department don’t generally employ the sharpest of minds, but surely even you aren’t that... _gifted_ that you wholeheartedly believe in this fancy little _theory_ of yours. Have a good day, Captain.”

And with those parting words he closed the doors right in Jim’s face, obviously not willing to subject himself to his company even for a moment longer.

Jim blinked, not processing what had just transpired at a decent enough speed. Objectively, this all could still be a rouse, he knew, but his heart wasn’t behind the idea. The thing was, he desperately wanted to be swayed from his theory, he _wanted_ Jeremiah to do it, and sway him he did. To an extent.

Now, though, he was left with even less fitting pieces for this elaborate puzzle of a killer, and it made him start doubting what he knew, or thought that he knew with any measure of certainty. If it wasn’t Nygma or Strange, and wasn’t Bruce, then _who was_?

He almost wished for Jerome to wake up, despite knowing full well how much mayhem and despair that would bring, if only for some clarity. Some gut instinct honed by countless investigations told him that the psychopath would know, however unlikely that idea appeared from a logical point of view.

He was pulled from his mulling by shrill sound of his cell, which resulted in him dropping his keys just as he absentmindedly pulled them from his pocket. It was Harvey with his usual almost supernaturally wrong timing, of course.

With a heavy sigh he answered the call, though his unpleasant mood evaporated in an instant. Jonathan, it seemed, had just cracked the formula. The devious concoction remained unknown no longer.

He jumped into the car, whistling cheerfully while no one was listening, and sped back to the precinct, all previous thoughts temporarily forgotten. They were getting somewhere at long last.

**JVJVJV**

“-that’s incredible!” finished Dr. Rosen. Jim tuned him out quite a bit earlier (or actually, at the very beginning, from the words ‘ridiculously complicated chained and simultaneously paralleled reactions of the precursors’), so it took him a moment or two to return to the world of the living. Thankfully, the fascinated forensic expert seemed to interpret his delayed reaction as a sign of awe.

“That was all very enlightening, of course, but I’m afraid I didn’t quite grasp what this impressive concoction actually does to victims’ bodies. In simple terms, if you may.”

Jim ignored the expert’s indignant spluttering in favor of focusing on Jonathan, who up until that point had been hovering silently nearby and now perked up at his words.

“Yes, of course,” Crane replied with an air of long since mastered patience for those who didn’t share his in-depth knowledge of such things. “Basically, the injection shuts down any responses from nervous system for a prolonged amount of time (not indefinite, of course, as it would be nigh impossible to achieve, though by now our test subject still hasn’t responded to stimuli even sin the slightest), rendering the victim completely defenseless in face of the assailant.

“Moreover, it also serves as a potent tranquilizer for a short amount of time — about an hour, I reckon. Then the injected regains consciousness, but not sensitivity in any members bar facial muscles to an extent. Not the vocal chords, though, thus the murderer can indulge in his cravings undisturbed by any screams. Any amount of pain also isn’t registered, if it’s any consolation, though it definitely wasn’t the goal — more like a side effect.”

“Thank you, Jonathan,” Jim said warmly. After that Dr. Rosen’s temper got the better of him, just like Jim knew it would, and when the prideful expert left them alone, he immediately proceeded to attack the unsuspecting inmate; “Now, is there anything you don’t tell me?”

“No, Captain, of course not,” Crane’s protest could have fooled most people, but Jim prided himself on his observational skills, and his interlocutor’s minuscule expressions had just proved that there certainly was something else. And he was determined to get to the bottom of this, the cost be damned.

“Of course not,” he parroted. “I see. Well then, if you’re sure, I suppose your reprieve from the asylum has come to an end. It’s not like you can be of further help anyways.”

He played dirty and knew that, but this information was crucial, and his plan had worked, at any rate. The dawning horror on Jonathan’s face showed as much.

“No, please, don’t send me there now!” Jonathan almost begged frantically, but Jim resolutely refused to relent, no matter how it pained him to do so. “Alright, I’ll tell you, just promise not to do it to me until Strange is no longer a threat.”

“I promise you,” he gave in easily, having no intention to follow through with his threat in the first place.

“Alright, it’s... complicated. Some of the patterns reminded me of my father’s work, and by extension my own. He used to synthesize his creations in similar manner, and I learned from him. Your killer must be deeply familiar with either of our works, or both.”

“But you don’t suspect anyone in particular?” he prompted when it became obvious that the chemist didn’t intend to continue.

“No, nobody springs to mind,” Jonathan replied after a pause, and this time Jim was noticeably more inclined to believe him. “It could be anyone, really, especially if they relied on my father’s work. He was rather amicable when it came to his passion of less... controversial origins.”

“Very well, thank you,” Jim sighed. “You’ll be spending your time till Strange’s arrest at the same place, unless we find ourselves in need of your input. Please call me immediately or at least pass the message with one of the officers in case you suddenly remember something else.”

“I will,” Jonathan conceded solemnly, and with that said Jim called for someone to escort Crane from the premises, convinced that he’d been able to successfully drive his point across.


	9. VII

The officers who questioned Gotham florists quickly returned empty-handed, and Harper’s cautious inquiries into private collections hadn’t harbored any fruit so far, but thankfully there was something that Jim could take pride in amidst this seemingly never-ending stream of failures. A few days had passed since Strange’s possible hideout was located, and mere hours ago this information was finally confirmed.

Now Jim jogged in a van with a squad, being the only one in the whole team who knew whom they aimed to apprehend due to the utmost discretion of the ordeal. Now more than ever failure wasn’t an option, and he long since resigned himself to constant leaks from officers with flexible morals.

It didn’t mean that he was comfortable with it, and so he hurried to abandon this train of thought before it could sour his mood, which wasn’t that high to begin with. Thinking about his upcoming success (as he refused to consider alternative possibilities), for instant, never failed to bring him to great spirits.

Taking Strange into custody would without a doubt result in boost in confidence amid the policemen, and even more importantly, change of populace’s heart. From useless tax eaters the force would transform into protectors, just as it was meant to be. The pressure on their shoulders would ease somewhat, and Jim himself would be able to breathe a little bit easier.

Of course, right when his internal musings became pleasurable for once, a violent jolt snapped him out of them. Though to be honest, it was better to concentrate on his surroundings instead of thoughts anyway. It’s not like he wouldn’t be able to reminisce at a more appropriate time, after all.

He glanced at his watch as discreetly as possible, mildly surprised (but glad nonetheless) to find that they were due to reach their destination at any minute now. The waiting game was finally over, and his veins sang with a heady increase of adrenaline — he never was the type to sit idly by, allowing others to did all the work and risk themselves in the process just because he was their superior and thus considered ‘more important’ than average officers (at least that was what he told himself and anyone who asked, as it surely was a more legitimate reason than being an adrenaline junkie).

The van came to a silent stop, and everyone’s gazes immediately latched onto Jim.

“Sir?” the Head of the unit inquired.

“I suppose it’s high time I divulge the reason behind this all,” he conceded to the unspoken request. “A while ago I received disconcerting news about one of Gotham’s most infamous fugitives’ activities. Due to heroic actions of two of your fellow officers we were able to gather more in-depth intel on them and, most importantly, said person’s whereabouts. In a few minutes we will be assaulting his base. I hope all of you have heard of him — the criminal in question is Dr. Strange, former head of Arkham. You are to attempt to apprehend him bloodlessly, though death is still preferable to another escape.

“As far as we were able to gather, the criminal has recently received support from unknown source that amounts to medical equipment, weapons, manpower in form of ten highly trained individuals of unknown origins and allegiances, and enough money to further aforementioned advantages, though no moves on that were made up until several hours ago, when our agent had to retreat. What happened in the meantime is anyone’s guess. Any questions?”

“Am I correct to assume that the target is the only one on the premises who is to remain alive, sir?” the same man asked.

“Not imperative, but yes. I highly doubt that any of those unknown individuals would be willing to divulge information, and besides, the fugitive himself would surely be able to do that with the right insensitive. Though, there might also be one of Strange’s two assistants, unlikely both. They don’t pose any real threat and thus are preferably to leave in shackles alongside the main target. Anything else?”

“No, sir,” the squad chorused as one, as though back in their army days. Unperturbed, Jim proceeded to hop off the trunk, nod at the building (unnecessarily, as they’d already studied the blueprints) and command the start of operation. The team unleashed on it without a hitch, and after the first shots rang, he followed them in at a slightly more sedated pace — after all, he wasn’t a complete idiot, no matter what people said.

**JVJVJV**

It turned out, almost nothing went as planned. Jim should’ve already gotten used to this, of course, considering how many years he’d spent in the hellhole of a city, but somehow the disaster still caught him by surprise.

Firstly, Strange did in fact manage to acquire half a dozen more guards in the short spun of time when he was left to his devices, either due to extreme paranoia or because he (or more likely some of those unknown soldiers) noticed supervision. Secondly, Jim once again landed himself in too deep shit, considering those were literal soldiers — the fact that was proved by unified equipment, strict commandeering and later fucking dog tags on every corpse. It seemed that motherfucking mastermind got patrons in high-ranking military, and that was definitely a bite Jim couldn’t possibly swallow.

Not that he got any chance to even attempt doing so, as the bastard was shot during a frantic escape attempt, and the only remaining assistant was very convincing when he pleaded that he didn’t know anything about Strange’s mysterious customers. The second one, who somehow winded up at the premises as well despite all previous observations (and supposedly knew more than the first, of course), was dead as well.

All in all, the whole operation was a complete and utter failure, and Jim didn’t even have anyone to put the blame upon. Or more accurately, anyone barring himself.

The sheer amount of high quality medical equipment suggested that something truly massive (and terrible, no doubt, considering the utmost secrecy and a known criminal as a leading scientist) was going on. The costs must have been significant, to say the least, and made Jim understandably weary of the very possibility of a second attempt. Hopefully, if — _when_ — it came down to that, the choice would be made in favor of someplace other than trice damned Gotham (and he himself wouldn’t be assassinated for the unknown offense in the next couple of days).

One could only hope, after all.

Though he still made all the necessary arrangements and rewrote his will, just in case. He even caught himself subtly acting as if he bid farewells to everyone he cared for or came in contact with.

The assistant’s interrogation did nothing but strengten his resolve. The fortunate (or quite the opposite, at second glance) man was terrified out of his mind when he reluctantly disclosed some of the things the mad scientist had been up to. Jim was tempted to consult Jonathan then and there, if only for his helpfulness and already proved efficiency, but decided against dragging the poor kid into this life-threatening mess as well. And besides, last time he checked Crane didn’t have any degree or notable interest in neuroscience.

Jim had never been as twitchy as he was in the next four days anticipating the trial — tight-wrapped and rushed at inhuman speed as it was. There blessedly weren’t any new murders, as though the culprit put himself in the Captain’s shoes (or was reigning himself in to avoid committing any mistakes in his anger after his previous misfortune, more likely), but it did nothing to alleviate Jim’s immediate concerns.

When the time came, though, and he still didn’t fall a victim to unknown military higher-ups’ retaliation, he allowed himself a first proper breath since the whole ordeal.

Prematurely, it seemed, as the scientist-turned-criminal was expertly shot on the courtroom’s threshold. Roughly at the same time the power at the precinct went off, and during the small gap before reserve generator was automatically turned on all the confiscated lab equipment was somehow stolen, leaving absolutely no trace behind.

Not that he put much of an effort into investigating both crimes, truth be told. Reckless or not, he knew a battle he couldn’t possibly win when he saw one. And besides, as ashamed as he was to admit it, he locked himself in his tiny apartment immediately after the assassination and didn’t dare leave despite knowing that his ‘defenses’ were laughable at best for someone half as skilled and resourceful as the people he had inadvertently crossed. Such honorable mindset and mobility surely didn’t make a great investigator in flagrante delicto, did they?

His frayed nerves were settled a bit after almost a day of him staying alive, and of course the fucking maniac deemed it a perfect opportunity to remind already shaken city that he also existed. After Harvey’s call Jim swore to himself that he’d kill the bastard on spot if it turned out that he was somehow connected to the police.

Muttering expletives under his breath, he stomped down to his car, for a moment forgetting to be afraid of would-be assassins, and started the engine, not even remembering to check half-heartedly for a bomb.

He didn’t miss a chance to berate himself on his carelessness, of course, when his fears caught up to him halfway to the crime scene. Any precautions were useless by that point, and thus he resolutely powered through a minor panic attack without much difficulty.

Their serial killer’s choice of the day was — what a surprise! — a rundown warehouse. To his credit, this one was at least far from Gotham’s outskirts. In fact, the place was almost next door to the shiny central building of _Wayne Enterprises_ of all things, give or take a couple of houses. How something that ill-maintained could be situated in the area was beyond Jim.

Though, he quickly shook it off as unimportant. The sole fact of such a neighbor in close vincinity commandeered most of his attention.

Jeremiah’s words still rang true in his mind, but he couldn’t help reflexively thinking worst of Bruce based on this mere coincidence alone. It was as if he’d lost any remaining grasp on his own thought processes, agonizingly spiraling downwards the field of uncertainty and treacherous doubt.

Thankfully, he couldn’t exactly afford dwelling on it at the moment. Harvey wasn’t very clear on the phone, but it appeared as if there were once again two bodies. Two more poor souls that couldn’t wait for him to get his shit together and finally bring them peace.

Determined, he exited his car and reached the police tape in a few wide strides, all thoughts of Bruce and Strange’s patrons temporarily forgotten.

**JVJVJV**

Dr. Rosen was staring intently at one of the two victims with an unreadable expression on his face. Jim’s gaze immediately followed the lead, and he couldn’t help his outburst as soon as his muddy brain registered what it was that caught good doctor’s attention.

“Fuck!” he swore, looking at the body of previous murder’s witness, forever contorted in obvious pain.

“Oh, Captain, you’re here at last,” the expert acknowledged his presence absentmindedly, not bothering to turn to his superior. “Guess the kid was granted his wish after all.”

Jim clenched his teeth, willing scathing retort to go away. After all, Dr. Rosen clearly wasn’t anywhere near as unaffected as he’d like Jim to believe, if his staring was anything to go by, and the sarcasm was just a default defensive mechanism.

“Not that it went the way he wanted,” the MD continued, seemingly oblivious to Jim’s inner struggles. “The death was pretty painful, I believe. And a drawn out one to boot. In fact-“

“Enough!” Jim snapped. “Closer to the topic, if you please.”

“I intended to, you know,” the expert retorted irritably and was about to add to it, but then he finally turned to face the Captain and abruptly changed his mind. “Alright, if you insist. Cause of death is cut throat, obviously. Though the killer shouldn’t have bothered, since the bleeding from other numerous wounds was steadfastly getting to the victim by the time he decided to end the kid’s suffering. This sluggish spray from severed artery over there,” he gestured at indeed almost nonexistent bloodstain that overlapped several smaller ones, “indicates as much.

“I estimate the whole process to have taken a couple of hours, which places the final blow at about the same time as the other victim’s — probably right after finishing off that one. Judging by the rigor mortis, it all happened at least several hours ago. Eight to ten, in fact, which provides us with the longest interval between the killing itself and the actual discovery of the bodies up to date. It probably wouldn’t have occurred so relatively soon anyway, if not for the building owners’ sudden desire to sell the property. I guess they’ll have a hard time doing so now...

“Anyway, back on track. This contraption that supports the body is definitely custom made. Moreover, it’s for whatever reason not as spotless and nearly identical to the original as our killer has led us to expect. In fact, off the top of my head, there seems to be at least a few major inaccuracies. The most obvious one is the construction itself — the original spiked chair was made entirely differently. This one more resembles those pictures of yoga gurus sitting calmly on various surfaces adorned with spikes or needles.

“Oh, it might be the case, actually,” the expert suddenly perked up. “I’d look up those kind of things if I were you. There’s a chance the chair was ordered from some yoga establishment or a blacksmith who works with one of them.”

“I’m aware how to do my job, thank you,” Jim deadpanned.

“Good to hear that,” Dr. Rosen flashed a quick smile, as though the sarcasm went completely over his head (which it certainly didn’t). “That’d be all concerning the first victim. Now, the second one is far more interesting. Please, have a look at these bindings.”

He gestured at the body in question, a young ginger man stretched lifelessly between the ropes around his wrists and ankles, with a newly scarred face and a torso somehow mutilated beyond recognition — Jim honestly didn’t know a weapon that could do this to a person. Then, seemingly dissatisfied with poor lighting or something, came a few paces closer, urging Jim to do the same.

Up close the bindings did indeed look intricate, almost hinting at something ritualistic. The Captain nodded, showing that he understood what the fuss was about. The expert adopted a smug expression.

“This elaborate aggregate of knots has definitely got some underlying meaning, since the first victim was bound although meticulously, not half as thoughtfully and excessively as this one. Nothing more than an efficient means to restrict any movements, as opposed to this honest to god masterpiece. I can’t even roughly estimate how much time it must have taken. Therefore, there has to be a damn good reason to it, though regretfully we haven’t found a match as of yet.

“Now, cause of death might honestly be any of several life-threatening injuries, or even simple blood loss. I can’t tell you for certain at the moment, you understand,” he made a vague gesture, encompassing the freaking mess that had become of the victim’s torso. It was a hardship just to stand this close and observe all the terrible wounds and poking bones and splattered intestines, let alone try to spot something in their midst, so of course Jim understood, and he said as much.

“However,” the expert pressed, probably not even registering his sounding board’s mumbling. “The murder weapon couldn’t possibly be more obvious. I’ve recently brushed up my knowledge of Malleus Maleficārum and witch hunts in general, you see, and this could be done by only one thing. It’s called cat claws, very fitting, and constitutes of an iron pivot which forks into a number — two in our case, I reckon — of sharp hook-like tips. Those are used for delivering heavy strikes that pierce and claw at human skin and with enough force are even capable of ripping not only soft tissue, but bones as well, as you can very well see. Rather popular interrogation technique back in the Middle Ages.”

Jim stared at the bloody carnage in front of him, not totally comprehending that a human being might be capable of such cruelty — countless human beings even, if the not so ancient history was to be believed. But still, the humanity evolved a great deal since then, rendering such injustices as a thing from the dark and long-forgotten past.

That is, until someone decided to resuscitate the horrendous practice. Fucking Jack the Ripper of modern days.

“Well?” Dr. Rosen inquired impatiently. “What do you say, Captain?”

“That I’m glad that Gotham isn’t exactly visitor-friendly and no major news agencies pay attention to our wonderful city,” he spoke his mind. “Imagine the uproar if the whiff of our neighborhood serial killer gets to one of them. That’d be one hell of a bad publicity, or worse, a source of inspiration for numerous fledgling murderers.”

The leading expert looked thoughtful for a moment, before shaking himself from his reverie and attempting to do the same to Jim; “That sounds disconcerting, yes, but not what I wanted to hear about.”

“I don’t know what you want to hear then,” he sighed, bone tired. “My uptake on the lengths of human cruelty and depravity? Let’s be honest, neither of us has much faith left that we’ll catch him unless he makes a severe mistake, and I don’t think we can safely count on that, considering he was just as thorough and spotless under extreme duress. His previous slip is looking at us right now with accusing lifeless eyes that no doubt have bore witness to the mayhem the likes of which they had the audacity to unwittingly intrude upon, and I dread to imagine what awaits us all if the killer miscalculates again. There’s no finding him, not really, unless he wants us to.”

“So what, you give up?” Dr. Rosen asked incredulously with a derisive sneer.

“Of course not! I’ll go through the motions like a good little cop, that’s not the point. What I meant to say is that it’s no use, as simple as that. I’d bet we’re going to achieve nothing by bothering collectors and blacksmiths and whoever next, by examining the nonexistent evidence and performing autopsies, by covering the CCTV footage. Nothing will point us in the direction of the modern Ripper until he either messes up big time, chances of which aren’t exactly high, or decides to deign us with a proper cat-and-mouse game on his own terms, and I don’t really believe he’d ever be the mouse in this equation.

“I can tell you all you want about my assumptions on his behavior and signature and modus operandi, speculate on his motives and patterns, recreate what happened at this very crime scene to the victims and probably why, I might even guess correctly for once, but all of it gives us nothing. The truth of the matter is, we’re in far over our head with this extremely high-functioning psychopath, just as we were with goddamned Strange and his mysterious patrons, albeit unknowingly.”

“That’s it, then?” Dr. Rosen arched a brow, unimpressed, though underneath the facade he appeared deeply shaken. “It’s all about Strange, isn’t it? You shouldn’t let your failures affect the ongoing investigations, _Captain_. I expected better from someone of your composure and experience.”

“And you know all about it, of course,” Jim barked, that primal fear of death finally catching up to him, only fueled further by the expert’s perceptiveness. “I may damn well be dead before long for daring to apprehend Strange in the middle of his immoral experiments, I think I’m allowed a moment or two of pessimism.”

The good doctor’s eyes widened in shock, and he opened his mouth to say something, but Jim was done.

“I expect your forensic reports as soon as you can possibly manage, preferably by the end of the day, and don’t think I give a fuck how much it takes. Just do your fucking job for once!”

With that said, he stormed off from the crime scene, nearly knocking over the poor girl with an array of heavy cameras. After a quick apology he left without a second thought, not even offering his help as he was usually prone to do.

**JVJVJV**

“What’s gotten into you yesterday?” Harvey asked during the debriefing the next day, when it became clear that the Captain’s already infamous temper had considerably subdued. Jim just smiled somewhat sheepishly, not at all ready to admit his weakness in front of anyone, let alone a whole bunch of his coworkers.

“The truth stings,” Dr. Rosen commented vindictively, thankfully not going further than that despite all the questioning glances from every other member of the team. It was probably just his self-preservation acting up — after all, the bastard knew first-hand what beast he would be risking awakening otherwise.

“Don’t any of you have work to do?” Jim cut to the chase, annoyed. His retort had the intended effect, as the gathered policemen immediately dug into their respective papers, creating an illusion of activity.

Not that it wasn’t all in vain, though. Jim was certain that he would have been alerted at once had anything remotely helpful come up.

“I feel the need to stress the fact that neither victim was drugged with the killer’s special concoction outside of my report,” the forensic expert broke the silence after a few moments. “It indicates not only his anger and intricate planning in spite of it, which is enlightening, of course, but otherwise useless. It also shows without a doubt that whoever commits these crimes has an easy access to our database and the unspoken details of this investigation, since he’s simply mocking our success in the labs, in my opinion.”

“Unspoken?” Jim frowned, suddenly interested.

“Yes. As I’ve pointed out in my report, rope burns and signs of starvation clearly suggest that first victim, namely the witness of ninth murder, was abducted way before the second. Three or four days, to be precise, which places the abduction before my digitalized report on the chemical cocktail. I believe he spent that time learning the error of his ways, probably also listening to our perp’s narcissistic bragging. What a dreadful way to go, I imagine,” he deadpanned. “And of course, it also means that the killer inhabits a considerate enough property, probably a house. Moreover, he must live alone, if our honorable Captain’s words about his trust issues are to be believed, otherwise the traces of a gag would be present.”

Jim’s frown became more pronounced. To be honest, he hadn’t found the time to browse through the autopsy reports, but in his defence, he didn’t think he’d find anything new in them either. Why couldn’t Dr. Rosen have informed him directly about something of such significance?

Ah yes, they’d just had an ugly argument at the crime scene, how could Jim forget?

“That’s... major,” he said slowly after clearing his throat. He didn’t bother to hide the fact that he hadn’t read the goddamned reports, earning disapproving glares from his colleagues. “I don’t recall any missing person statements during that time, not from the kid’s parents for sure.”

“They’re a troubled family,” Harper scrunched her nose. “Though I have a hard time comprehending the extent of it, especially considering what happened to him a mere handful of days ago.”

“To be fair, we weren’t expecting the killer to change his MO either,” Jim conceded, no matter how it pained him to defend the supposedly abusive family. “Nevertheless, we ought to interrogate them for the second time in light of this new revelation. Harper, go in for it.”

The woman nodded determinedly, but then paused; “Actually, Captain, I expect a few updates on the private collections as we speak. I know I haven’t had any luck so far, but now, since we’ve got one more weapon description, I have every faith-“

“Don’t bother,” Jim interrupted. “I’ll send someone else instead. And on that note, please don’t let your hopes high in case it doesn’t pay off as you want it to. I, for one, can hardly imagine how illegality of black markets would have deterred our perp, and we don’t have any access to the records of those. Your lead is a fairly long shot.”

“I understand,” she nodded again, this time more shakily, as if he’d just crushed her last resort. He probably should have been less harsh, Jim supposed, but then again, she’d better hear it now than be faced with an entirely unexpected failure later.

“Good,” he nevertheless said, trying for a more gentle approach. “Now, does anyone else have news?”

Several officers shook their heads, indicating lack of progress. Jim just sighed resignedly, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. This was to be expected, after all.

“Well then, get back to your work now,” he firmly ordered instead, intending to do the same. Frustratingly elusive serial killer on the loose or not, there never was a shortage of other crimes in long-suffering Gotham City.

Just as he was mentally organizing the order in which he would brave through a pile of low-profile cases on his desk, someone’s phone went off with the sound of an alarm or probably notification. Jim didn’t think anything of it, of course, but then Dr. Rosen uncharacteristically jumped on spot, toppling over his chair and causing the crowd to hastily move away least they risked ending up on the floor as well.

“That’s the shibari!” he exclaimed, wide-eyed and gaping. “My amazing baby has found the definite match, and you won’t ever believe what it turned out to be!”

“We aren’t interested in your sex life, Doc,” Harvey snorted.

“What!?” Dr. Rosen gasped, scandalized. “Baby ain’t no cheap whore, she’s my computer system which I-“

“Oh for God’s sake, spill it already!” Harper impatiently smacked him on the shoulder, saving Jim from resorting to similarly undignified reprimand.

“Fine, you ungrateful woman. It’s quipu!” he declared victoriously, unable to keep a pouting face. After a pause, when no one showed any signs of recognition, he rolled his eyes and sighed in defeat. “Doesn’t anyone here read? It’s an ancient South American means of recording information via knotted strings, you morons. The Kingdom of Cusco? Inca Empire? Doesn’t ring any bells at all?.. You lot are hopeless, I tell you. Anyway, it was mostly used for storing numeric data, and the non-numeric quipus haven’t been deciphered as of yet, which means that the encoded information must consist of numbers.”

“Are you confident that your ‘baby’ and you will be able to decipher it or should I contact someone?” Jim asked the most relevant question, once again marveling at the good doctor’s intellectual depths but refusing to show it least the vain bastard’s ego exploded.

“Of course! Who do you think I am, an amateur?” the hero of the day replied, sincerely offended, then turned to Harper with a suggestive smirk. “Vanessa, dear, didn’t you tell me about your fascination with cryptography the other day? I might require your assistance if we are to translate the message today.”

“Sure thing,” the fierce and stern officer giggled like a schoolgirl, not even sparing a thought for updates on her lead. Jim decided to allow it this once, if only for the prospect of her abandoning the most likely futile endeavor in favor of something actually productive.

“Come along, then,” Dr. Rosen exclaimed, exhilarated, looking like he couldn’t stay still if his life depended on it. The pair promptly left the conference room immediately after, and Jim’s other subordinates weren’t far behind.

It turned out, the forensic expert’s excitement was contagious, for Jim remained in high spirits for the hours to come. He buckled down and was able to efficiently crack several cases, albeit relatively simple ones, and even wasn’t terrified out of his mind when he had to do some legwork and grab a lunch. Come to think of it, the unknown forces must have surely left Gotham by now and decided to leave him be, otherwise he would be dead already.

Because of that he greeted the duo of researchers with a smile when they showed up at his office shortly before the official end of the work day. His pleasant expression didn’t falter until they delivered their findings, which turned out to be a crude mockery of the whole department’s intelligence combined, encrypted in ‘elementary numerology’.

Jim colorfully sweared then and there that he’d shoot the fucker on spot regardless of who he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im sorry if this chapter felt like somewhat of a filler to you (it did to me). I just needed Strange out of the picture before the real fun begins, and I also needed to delay the moment when Nissa al Ghul shows up for the plot.  
> Now, with basically half the story finished, things are finally speeding up. Guess who’s gonna resurface in the next update?
> 
> P. S. Check out my brand new au with Jeremiah staying at the circus up until the point of Lila’s murder, if you’re willing — https://archiveofourown.org/works/24772573


	10. VIII

He comes to gradually, his brain fogged as though each neuron is carefully wrapped in a thick wool blanket, seemingly unable to concentrate on his surroundings enough to fully — or at all, for that matter — register them. Grasping for his latest memories is a task akin to holding streaming water with his bare hands.

It doesn’t make him any less determined, of course. It’s in no way easy to brave though the almost pleasant fog he is floating in, but he manages, if just barely. After all, he hasn’t endured that much in the span of his relatively short life for nothing.

And besides, this almost-comfort makes him — paradoxically enough — uncomfortable, itchy. He has a feeling that he hasn’t experienced such a state often, if at all.

Fuck, just who is he!?

As if from afar he hears distinctly familiar beeping sound speeding up, but cannot place it. This damned fog begins to really grate on his nerves now, since he absolutely _loathes_ to be out of control, even if it usually seems to be the other way around to any outside observers.

And this revelation still doesn’t give him any insight to his identity. The frustration makes something inside of him grow and grow, until the muddy blinking spots in front of his eyes turn red and his very being throbs with the urge to _hurtbleedmaimkillkillkillkill_.

The beeping escalates to deafening frequency, and then there’s an echo of hurried footsteps, the door — _what door?_ — bursts open, someone — female — shrieks and drops something heavy and metallic on the floor, and his bleary eyes zero in on the sound until the world stops spinning.

He sees a nurse, her expression terrified — _why?_ — and face so pale that the freckles startlingly stand out. She turns around on spot, leaving even faster than she came in, all the while never once stopping the godawful screaming.

Though he can discern her words now, too — _was she just drilling a single sound before?_. Something about “he’s awake” and “Valeska”.

And then he remembers, as if a switch has been turned. He abruptly remembers _everything_ and can’t help the sudden outburst of giddy laughter that erupts from his mouth. 

He survived! Once again prevailed against all odds!

Just as abruptly he stops, settling in comfortably for the entertainment that is sure to follow now. Oh, but Gotham is in for _such a blast_!

**JVJVJV**

“He what now?” Jim asked disbelievingly.

“He’s woken up,” the doctor repeated patiently, though he couldn’t completely hide his slightly shaking voice from someone as skillful in deciphering people’s emotions as Jim.

God, it wasn’t a mistake or a sick joke (though who in their right mind would consider this a laughing matter?) then. Jerome Valeska had indeed returned to the world of the living, and not in a vegetative state, if the doctor’s urgency was anything to go by.

“I’m already on my way,” he stated, subconsciously adopting his ‘professional’ tone, and hurried to grab his keys. “Isolate him as strictly as you can manage. And you’d better not have informed anyone outside of absolutely necessary amount of stuff members of this new development.”

“Of course not!” his interlocutor exclaimed, sounding more relaxed in his genuine affront than seconds ago.

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

Not waiting for a reply, he disconnected the call; the need to gather his scrambling thoughts taking precedence over any common courtesy.

Taking a few deep calming breathes in quick succession, he emerged from the safety of his office, mindful of his expression and overall demeanor. After all, it wouldn’t do to accidentally alert his colleagues that something was off. He’d prefer to postpone the inevitable revelation and subsequent backlash for as long as possible.

The streets of Gotham looked almost peaceful in midday hue, despite the serial killer being at the top of news charts for weeks now. Any other day he would be thrilled by populace’s complacency, but as it was, it only fueled his unease — and frankly dread. Jerome Valeska did nothing but establish himself as a prominent threat to everyone’s wellbeing in such a painstakingly short timespan, and this time around surely wouldn’t be any different. The psychotic genius would undoubtedly cause so much havoc and grief the moment his recovery ceased to remain hidden, even if his movements would still be restricted by Arkham confinement — his somehow obtained iconic status among delinquents of all sorts would see to that.

Add on top of that the usual abundance of day-to-day crime, that fucking nightmare of a serial killer, and the city would erupt in flames — figurative ones, hopefully. Oh, and Jim shouldn’t have forgotten about something ominous looming on the horizon, of which he had no proof bar his gut feeling. Had anyone else approached him with such ridiculous claims, he would have dismissed them without a second thought, but over the years he had learned hard way to trust his oftentimes almost supernatural instincts.

He heaved a sigh, feeling the weight of many innocent lives setting heavily on his shoulders. He couldn’t afford to lose his composure now of all times, damn it! Gotham needed him desperately, even if they didn’t know the real extent of it yet.

A distraction in form of the infamous psychiatric institution was almost welcome at this point. Its grim, gloomy walls grew threateningly the closer he got to the premises, until all that remained in his immediate line of sight was aged main building.

Jim jumped out of his car, not lingering on his unsavory musings a moment longer. Work wasn’t going to accomplish itself.

As soon as he entered the reception hall, he was quickly ushered further inside by a doctor who up until that moment had been nervously pacing back and forth. The scene created such a sharp contrast to his previous interactions with the personnel that he couldn’t help but instinctively become even more wary than he was on his way here.

The doctor, an unassuming middle-aged man, politely introduced himself, but his name immediately slipped Jim’s mind. His voice, however, confirmed that he was the one on the phone, and Jim wasted no time before inquiring after all the stuff members who were in on the secret of Jerome’s awakening.

“I assure you, we do realize the delicacy of this matter better than most,” the indignant incredulity was expected, of course, but no less annoying. “And contrary to popular belief, here in Arkham we generally value such things as basic human decency. One black sheep doesn’t amount to the whole facility with decades-long history and success rate. Rest assured, there won’t be any leak from the staff as long as my colleagues and I remain in charge.”

“Of course,” Jim replied, not at all convinced and putting in too little effort to hide it. “Nevertheless, I’d be most obliged if I received a complete list of all those privy to such sensitive information. It’s a _delicate matter_ , you understand.”

The doctor scoffed, but otherwise remained silent. Jim was about to insist, not trusting any member of Arkham personnel as far as he could throw them, but just then they seemingly reached their destination, if his guide’s expression was anything to go by.

“I’d prefer if you let me interrogate Valeska on my own, Doctor,” he said instead, since there would be a time for demanding the list later.

“As you wish. It’s not like he poses any threat with all those bindings,” the man briskly assured him and then left, visibly fuming. No doubt he was intelligent enough to grasp that their dispute was far from over.

At the moment Jim paid his interlocutor’s mannerisms no mind, though. After all, it was hard to concentrate on much of anything when he was about to enter a shark tank.

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and pushed the door open with as much confidence as he could muster.

**JVJVJV**

“Jimbo, my old friend, what a _delectable_ surprise!” greeted him Valeska with his trademark disturbingly wide smile no sooner had the door cracked open. “How’s it hanging?”

For a moment Jim was convinced that the criminal before him somehow knew what was going on, but that would be impossible even by Gotham standards, wouldn’t it? No, it was merely his tired mind playing tricks on him, making connections where there were none to be found. It had to be.

Otherwise Jerome would have already found out about his rivaling maniac and his peculiar obsession with hanging people up, and that was just plain unacceptable. Thus Jim shoved such insane thoughts away and attempted to get back on track with the purpose behind his visit.

No such luck.

“C’mon, Cap, don’t be shy,” Jerome drawled teasingly, his ever-present smile widening even further — inhumanely so — upon noticing Jim’s evidently poorly concealed discomfort. His teeth glistened with unnatural sharpness under the electric light.

“Well, I’m sorry your psychopathic perception allows you to misinterpret my disdain towards your company for shyness,” Jim remarked dryly after sufficiently gathering himself.

He knew that he’d just made a mistake no sooner had the words left his mouth — after all, Jerome proved time and time again that he was prone to sudden violent outbursts at any perceived slight, which in turn helped the force with foiling his otherwise impressively put-together plans. Alas, that was apparently not the case this time around, as the only reply he got was full-blown laughter.

“Jeez, Jimbo, chill a bit, would ya?” his interlocutor wheezed out in between deranged bursts. “Though ya know what? Don’t. Ya pathetic attempts at mockery never cease to amuse me. Brother dearest did better by the time we turned five. His words stung at least.”

“Don’t bother with painting Jeremiah as a convincing liar, I already know your spiel,” Jim snapped irritably, ignoring Jerome’s abruptly sobered up expression.

“Of course ya do, don’tcha? And still fail to see what he really is. _Just as all of them did all those years ago_ ,” he muttered darkly almost to himself, but then his somber mood was gone in an instant, leaving no traces behind, and the deranged grin returned. Jim never got a chance to agree with his assessment and use Jerome’s bitterness — perhaps the only real emotion he displayed — to his own advantage, though admittedly, he wasn’t even sure he’d have seized the opportunity presented to him.

“It’s no matter, anyway. Ya’ll know soon enough, I’m sure,” Jerome continued in a cheery tone as if nothing had just happened, and then went on before Jim could inquire into the meaning behind his statement, which was uttered with alarming conviction. “Back to your previous words. Ya know what else they say about us psychopaths, particularly here in Arkham? We find ourselves an obsession, pursue it, then grow bored and drop it in favor of another. Rinse, and repeat. _Neat._ I’m not particularly fond of shrinks, ya see, but I have to give them credit for this one.”

Valeska smiled cruelly, layers upon layers of possible interpretations hidden in depths of his crazy eyes. Jim stiffened. What did the psycho even mean by this seemingly abrupt change of topic? Or was it not a change at all? Did he hint at Jeremiah’s supposed actions? Something else entirely?

His heart grew cold the moment he reached this conclusion. Inexplicably, he once again was utterly convinced that Jerome knew what it was about. But this was simply not possible, right?

Only one way to find out.

“Whom are you talking about?” he growled, attempting (and failing spectacularly) to force the madman into submission. Jerome simply laughed at his apparent hopelessness.

“Why, got your panties in a twist, didja?” he mocked. “Who said I’m talking about anyone in particular?”

He _knew_. Somehow, he knew, however impossibly it came to be. There was simply no other way.

“Fuck, I don’t even want to find out how you came across this shit. What do you know about this new killer?” Jim demanded with an air of defeat that made him inwardly cringe. Surely parading your weaknesses wasn’t the best course of action whilst dealing with sadistic psychopaths. But still; “Help me catch him.”

“Aww, poor thing,” Jerome cooed in a sickeningly saccharine voice, “so needy and desperate. Ya sound almost tempting, ya know. Too bad I ain’t interested. Got all my appointments already booked to the brim by far more fetching new playmate, I’m afraid.”

“And who might that be? Your brother, perhaps?” Jim asked scathingly, restoring his previous bitter self in a bid for more knowledge that might slip past his interlocutor’s defenses due to that infamous short temper of his, then narrowed his eyes when an unbidden thought came and wouldn’t leave. “Or Bruce?”

“Oh my, what is it that I see now? Trouble in paradise?”

A short phrase was all it took for Jim’s patience, which already ran extremely thin these days, to finally snap. In a movement so sudden that he himself hadn’t consciously registered it, Jim was upon the insufferable criminal in an instant, his right hand wound tight around Jerome’s throat, dangerously close to cutting off his air supply completely. Despite the initial surprise, there unfortunately wasn’t any trace of fear to be found in Valeska’s impenetrable green orbs or demonstratively relaxed body language.

“I’m sick of this beating around the bush!” he bellowed, not at all put off by lack of desired reaction. “And I don’t give a flying fuck about your so-called ‘plans’, since you aren’t leaving this institution anytime soon — or at all, hopefully. Now tell me, what do you have to do with this?”

“With what?” Jerome asked hoarsely when he was released. Jim’s hand tightened again for a moment, but then unclenched. After all, it was pointless and he knew it. His anger was meek and pathetic and didn’t lead to anything in face of someone of Valeska’s caliber.

“With our new friendly neighborhood maniac, of course. Somehow, I have this sneaking suspicion that you know more about this then the whole GCPD combined,” he replied tiredly, without any inflection in his voice.

“Well...” Valeska drawled with almost serious expression on his face, “you must admit, Jimbo, that it’s not exactly a complex feat.”

Silence stretched between the two of them, and Jim nearly exploded when it became clear that his interlocutor wasn’t adding anything else. Thankfully, he managed to reign himself in, if only barely — otherwise one more fit of psychotic laughter was sure to follow.

Not that he was saved from enduring it in the end, of course.

“Gotcha! Dammit, Cap, you’re a riot!” Jerome exclaimed when he somewhat sobered up.

“I repeat, what do you have to do with this mess, Jerome? I’m positive now there’s some measurement of involvement on your part, however unlikely that may sound.”

“Well, no. I didn’t do anything — had been indisposed for a while, as you may have noticed. It’s all on your guy, whoever he might be,” Valeska rebuffed in a mocking tone that made everything coming out of his mouth sound more or less sarcastic.

Jim was about to humiliate himself further by these futile negotiations when his phone rang. His reluctance to part with the device at the facility entrance proved correct.

Gathering himself, he picked up the call and immediately regretted not leaving Jerome’s cell beforehand. He could almost envision how his face crumpled and darkened even further.

“I’m on my way,” he told Harvey and stood up without a proper farewell to either of his interlocutors.

“Hey, what is it, Jimbo? Surely not another wax figure of lil ‘ol me,” Jerome, of course, was above letting him go in peace.

“None of your business, Valeska,” he snapped, turning around halfway through the door. He slammed it shut behind himself with enough force to shook the wall, but it still did nothing to quiet smug “Ya just confirmed it, ya know” or thunderous insane laughter that continued to rage inside his head long after he left hearing distance.

“I require this fucking list this instant. Send it to the precinct within an hour, unless you are willing to deal with a thorough inspection, and of course, I’ll be back shortly with a warrant and drafts for secrecy contracts, if that’s what you choose,” he barked at a random orderly. Surely his words would be passed down to the doctor who sanctioned his visit. And if not — well, it would be their own fault then. Jim Gordon wasn’t one to go back on his threats, heard or not.

**JVJVJV**

The body didn’t bother Jim nearly as much as usual this time around, probably because he was already on edge. It could also have something to do with the fact that the gore wasn’t as horrendous and graphic, though.

A man in his mid-twenties was tied to a lengthy wooden pole, his backside facing the row of broken floor-to-ceiling windows that illuminated the corpse in almost golden light of setting sun. He looked peaceful, as though merely fallen asleep, if one didn’t look lower. The torso painted a different picture altogether.

His whole midsection was covered in array of seemingly random penetrative wounds with something poking through. Stepping closer, Jim discovered that those were honest to god _crossbow bolts_ , just the same as he always imagined them.

He gasped, refusing to believe the sheer arrogance of someone who hadn’t even bothered to remove murder weapons. Surely the bolts would help the police to finally make some progress, would they not?

“Evening, Captain,” Dr. Rosen greeted him cheerily from somewhere on his left. “The nerve of this man is astonishing, don’t you agree? Not that it makes him any less brilliant, though. These pieces of metal are utterly useless, it seems, since the craft is fairly common and can be bought at number of places in Gotham alone. I don’t have much faith in alloy analysis either.”

“Splendid,” Jim commented dryly. “One more taunt from this bastard is exactly what I needed.”

“Oh, you haven’t heard about the biggest taunt yet!” the expert perked up with inordinate amount of glee. “A real piece of cake, I tell you!”

“Enlighten me then,” he suggested, wary and not exactly willing to be smothered in another shitload, but nonetheless honoring his duty as an officer of the law.

“Doesn’t this particular image remind you of something?.. No? Honestly, I’m not surprised. Behold Saint Sebastian, patron of soldiers and policemen (among other social groups). What you see is rather meticulous reconstruction of his first persecution, barring bolts instead of arrows. And moreover, a few of these shots were in fact lethal, whilst the legend says that none of them hit vital organs or arteries, thus allowing the saint to live on”

“Very funny, thank you,” Jim grumbled. “You sure you’re perfectly sane? Sharing sense of humor with our witty psychopath looks like a worrying sign to me.”

“I believe no one completely fits the image of sanity,” the forensic expert pointed out philosophically, not raising to the bait. “Are you alright, Captain? Having a bad day so far?”

“I’m fine, thank you. Get back to work and report immediately if you find something useful.”

“Sure thing. I’ll climb up directly to your office the moment such a miracle happens,” Dr. Rosen smirked.

“Good,” he nodded and turned around, pretending to not notice the not so subtle barb at his failure to read the previous reports despite urging the expert to finish them as soon as possible.

“Hey, Jim!” Harvey caught up to him when he neared his car.

“What is it?” he asked tiredly, concentrating more on pressing headache than his friend.

“You tell me!” his interlocutor exclaimed unexpectedly, then continued in a calmer voice. “We’ve known each other for years, Jim, I can see when you’re bothered by something. And this must be big if you are acting like that. You know you don’t have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders like some goddamned Atlas, right?”

“Look, Harvey, we are friends, but this... this is really big shit, alright?” Jim sighed, then paled with the realization of his misstep. “Oh for the love of!.. We have to intercept the fax from Arkham before the whole fucking department becomes aware of new development. Jerome has woken up today.”

“He what!?” his second in command shrieked on top of his lungs.

“Calm down now, will you?” he reprimanded irritably, squinting at several heads that turned in obvious interest. “We don’t want everyone to find out. You know they can’t keep secrets if their lives depended on it.”

“Yeah, sorry, you are right. It’s just... Never mind. Let’s get going.”

“Don’t berate yourself, my reaction was quite similar,” Jim gave him a slug on the shoulder and sprang to the car, not wasting any more time. He thought he spotted a human-shaped shadow on the nearby roof for a moment, but quickly dismissed it as yet another trick of his bone-tired brain. He had more important things than his hallucinations to attend to, anyway.


	11. IX

Unfortunately, they weren’t fast enough. Just as Jim pulled over at the parking lot, there was an incoming call from Harper.

“Yes, Harper?” he asked, desperately wishing for his intuition to be wrong for once.

“Captain,” she began hesitantly, and his heart sank. “You see, I was copying some papers when we received a fax... from Arkham. Does it really mean-“

“Don’t!” Jim interrupted her urgently. “Don’t say it out loud. Is there anyone else in the room who might have seen it?”

“Oddly, no.”

“Oh, thank God!” he released a shuddering breath he subconsciously held. “Yes, it means exactly that. No one else should know for now, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Good. I’m in the parking lot. Take it to my office, I’ll be there shortly.”

“Right away, sir.”

He disconnected and turned to Harvey, who had been listening in intently.

“Harper knows now, too,” he explained unnecessarily. “I’m glad it’s her, at least. She is one of the few officers we can trust with such sensitive information. Never thought one day I would be relieved by archivist’s lacking work ethics, but here we are.”

“Yeah, here we are,” Harvey echoed, a troubled expression on his face. “Do you think we would be able to keep it under wraps?”

“Truthfully? I don’t know,” he shook his head tiredly. “I sure hope so, but someone is bound to spill the beans at one point. If we are lucky, it won’t happen for a while yet.”

“Let’s pray we get all the luck in the world then,” his friend sighed.

**JVJVJV**

“May I come in?” Harper asked, despite the fact that he’d already technically given his permission. This sudden hesitance wasn’t like her at all, which meant that she wanted to talk about something... _significant_. Jim had a pretty good idea as to what it might be.

“Of course,” he assured nonetheless, trying to ignore how his innards were turning into shredded knots.

Harper smiled, visibly relieved, albeit even more nervous at the same time, and stepped into his office, taking more time than necessary to close the door. He didn’t judge her.

“So, sir, I was wondering...” she trailed off, gathering her courage. “I couldn’t help but think that you visiting... _him_ — you know, the other day — seemed rather... pointless, to put it bluntly. It’s not like he’d be able to escape or anything... right?” she laughed like the very idea was ridiculous, if not for the slightly hysterical edge to the cadence of her voice. “Unless you think that he might know something about... about what’s happening now. Does he?”

Damn, but he had never been more proud of her than in this very moment. Even if her brilliance was dangerous at times. He knew he had to thread this carefully, but he was just unable to outright lie to one of his best officers, both in skill and in morals.

“Yes, I do believe so,” he answered at last with a grave sense of finality. “In fact, I’m completely convinced of it, though I’m not aware of the extent of his knowledge. To be honest, it might as well be something unrelated to our prolific serial killer, but whatever it is, it only means death and destruction. That’s just the way Jerome is.”

“Oh,” Harper slumped in her seat, her intelligent eyes staring off into the distance, picking and discarding numerous ideas one after another. “Does it mean that he is not... cooperating, exactly?”

“I’m afraid not,” Jim shook his head as if in admonishment, despite knowing full well that hoping otherwise would be a rookie’s mistake. “All I have to work with amounts to simple conjecture and extrapolation from bits and pieces he gave me in form of a handful of metaphors and barely there hints. Not particularly reassuring, is it?”

“That sounds perfectly in character to me,” she sighed, her face set in an unhappy scowl. “Why are these psychos always so fond of playing mind games only they are privy to the rules of? Does it hurt to be straightforward for once?”

“I have no idea. And you shouldn’t ponder on it either, lest the abyss starts to stare back.”

“I knew the risks when I applied for the job!” Harper bristled indignantly.

“I know,” he tried to soothe her. “Just... be careful, will you? These sorts of people are dangerous, and not only to their victims. You lose a piece of yourself every time you get into their heads, and one day... one day you might not recognize the person that you see in the mirror.”

“I...” she deflated. “Alright, Captain, I promise to bear that in mind.”

“That’s all I ask for.”

“And what about you? You will be seeing him again, won’t you? Whether it’s a damaging experience or not.”

“It’s not like I have much of a choice,” he chuckled humorlessly. “Redirecting this duty is not exactly an option, won’t you agree? And besides, he likes me... somewhat. If anyone has any chance at succeeding, it’d be me. Or Bruce, for that matter, but I won’t let the kid anywhere near that deranged wretch.”

“I wouldn’t mind...”

“Out of the question!” Jim cut her off, unable to even stomach the idea that she’d no doubt festered for quite some time.

In hindsight, he should have realized it the moment she came to his office, instead of letting himself be lulled by seemingly harmless discussion of human psyche.

“I appreciate the gesture, I really do,” he hurried to add. “But don’t sign up for something you cannot handle. And I’m not trying to insult your intelligence or experience, because in great many aspects you are better than I’ve ever been — you’ve already proven so yourself. However, I’d still prefer to not expose you to the likes of Jerome Valeska if I could help it, just in case of... well. Promise me you won’t seek to visit him on your own.”

“I give you my word,” she said after a lengthy pause, sounding defeated, but thankfully accepting as well.

“Good. I suppose we should head to the meeting then.”

**JVJVJV**

The whole investigation team was already gathered in the assigned conference room when the two of them reached it as well, despite them coming slightly ahead of time. Even Dr. Rosen, the notoriously unpunctual man, was present as well.

Jim didn’t have to be a genius to figure that this did not bode well.

“It that true!?” several voices demanded at once upon noticing the new arrival. Jim’s heart sank even lower.

“It depends. What are you all referring to?” he inquired cautiously. 

“They know,” Harvey gravely confirmed his suspicions from somewhere in the background, earning a handful of shocked gazes. “In fact, _everyone_ around the precinct seems to have found out somehow.”

“How-“

“Oh fuck!” Harper cut him off, sounding mortified. “I’m afraid I might have been a tad too... overwhelmed to remember to delete that fax from the print queue.”

“That’s alright,” Jim assured her in a strangled tone that conveyed what exactly he thought of such clumsiness. Still, it wouldn’t do to lash out on any of his subordinates now, especially since it’d been ultimately his fault for not thinking his careless threat at Arkham through. Or his interlocutors’ back there for riling him up, or even the maniac’s for displaying a new body, for that matter.

Either way, pointing fingers would accomplish nothing. He had more important things to concern himself with at the moment. Like surviving the inevitable backlash, for instance.

He resisted the urge to groan in despair at the thought of public hysteria that was sure to follow now. Hopefully, all the drastically improved security measures in Arkham would alleviate at least some of the unpleasant reactions.

Otherwise he probably wouldn’t retain his position for much longer. And truth be told, he didn’t think of it as a particularly bad thing.

“To answer your questions, yes, Jerome Valeska has waken up without any apparent complications, such as memory loss and the like. _However_ , it doesn’t mean that you are allowed to freak out like mindless fools. He’s safely contained where he is and doesn’t have any opportunity to escape this time around. And that’s the end of it. I don’t wish to hear any of you discussing the matter further. Focus on more important things, like your work, for instance. Is that clear?”

Chorus of ‘yessir’s was his only answer, and he preferred it that way.

“Good. Now, I believe we’re gathered here for a reason...”

**JVJVJV**

Of course it was preposterous to think that it would be the last time he heard of this unfortunate turn of events. Still, he hoped that he wouldn’t have to bother with anything Valeska-related at least until the morning news.

Apparently, that was not the case.

The dreaded topic, however, was brought up by an entirely unexpected source. Jim’s cell rang in the early evening, when he was in the middle of wrapping up the day’s work, and he did a double-take upon checking the caller-ID. It was Alfred Pennyworth, who’d never once called from his personal number before.

Initial surprise quickly transformed into worry and then dread. This could mean only one thing; something must have happened to Bruce.

“Alfred?” Jim asked in as steady voice as he could manage the moment he picked up his phone.

“Good evening, Captain Gordon,” The butler greeted him in smooth British accent laced with hints of worry. “Do not be alarmed. Master Bruce is perfectly fine — physically, at least.”

“What do you mean ‘physically’? What happened? I’m coming over.”

“That’s exactly what I meant to talk to you about,” Alfred continued, still maintaining nigh impenetrable facade of calmness. “Master Bruce has acquired a certain piece of information pertaining to one Mr. Valeska’s improved health-“

“Has he now?” Jim weakly cut his interlocutor off.

“Yes,” the butler confirmed as though it wasn’t a big deal. “More importantly, he decided to share his newfound knowledge with aforementioned criminal’s brother. I trust you can imagine the reaction he received in return. Of course, Bruce’s compassionate nature got the better of him, and after Mr. Jeremiah Valeska continuously refused to pick up the phone in his no doubt hysterical state my ward sped off towards the young man’s bunker. It happened several hours ago, and after a while master Bruce stopped answering my calls as well.

“Now, at first I came to the conclusion that he must have exhausted Mr. Valeska, thus getting his friend to let him in. I gave them a few hours to sort through the issue, but after a while the theory no longer seemed plausible. Now I’m deeply concerned for master Bruce’s well-being, and I ask you to check on him in case he simply does not wish to talk to me, however minuscule the chance may be. You see, we’ve had a little... fallout this afternoon due to our drastically different opinions on Mr. Valeska and his prominent presence in master Bruce’s life.”

“I see,” Jim replied, unsure whether or not he shared the man’s concerns. “It’s no problem, Alfred, I’ll drive by the bunker and report back to you immediately upon discovering the truth. My workday has just conveniently come to an end.”

“Thank you, Captain, I’ll be most obliged. Fare well.”

“Same to you,” Jim replied and then hung up, grabbed his things and locked the door.

He managed to cover almost all the way down to his car before it occurred to him that the convenient timing might very well have been Alfred’s intention from the start. It once again proved how well-mannered and considerate the other man was, since he managed to hold himself off for who knew how long despite his worries.

Of course, the fact that he didn’t believe Bruce to be in any real danger must have factored in as well.

**JVJVJV**

The following hour and a half mockingly reminded Jim of why it was that he preferred not to leave the station this early. The streets were _loaded_ , the traffic jam horrendous.

It appeared as though every damn citizen of Gotham decided to go to the country at the very same moment. Cursing himself, Jim checked the calendar, and found that it was indeed Friday.

Of course the Universe would be against him even in the smallest of things.

By the time Jim reached his destination he was thoroughly exhausted and irritated at everything and nothing in particular. Not the best state of mind to deal with anyone, let alone Bruce or — god forbid — the younger Valeska twin, but it wasn’t like he had any choice in the matter.

He spent a few minutes in the safety of his car, trying to calm down his frayed nerves, before deeming it a lost cause and resolutely opening the door. Bruce was nowhere in sight, and Jim delayed the inevitable for a bit longer by texting Alfred just that.

Alas, he then ran out of any feasible excuses and with no small amount of reluctance rang the bell.

The image that greeted him on the other side of the door was nothing like he expected, though in hindsight he probably should have. After all, Alfred mentioned Jeremiah’s ‘hysterical state’, and the man had never been one for exaggerations.

The youngest Valeska was a mess. Everything — from the paleness of his face and dark shadows under his reddened eyes to his disheveled hair and slightly stubbled jaw — indicated alarming levels of distress. But all of it paled in comparison to the absolutely _wild_ look in his eyes. They alone resembled his brother’s so much in this moment that Jim couldn’t help but flinch, lost in the unpleasant memories of mayhem and terror.

“Are you here to personally deliver the news?” Jeremiah asked, breaking the spell.

“Yes,” Jim decided to go with it, since it sounded much better then the truth.

“That’s... rather considerate of you,” the redhead replied with a hint of surprise. “But there’s no need. Bruce has already done it.”

Jeremiah glanced back with sincere fondness, and Jim followed the lead. There he finally noticed the boy, who looked completely unharmed and well, barring traces of exhaustion in his features. Perfectly understandable, of course, since dealing with this Jeremiah surely must have been no walk in the park.

“Good evening, Captain Gordon,” Bruce greeted him, appearing relieved.

“Bruce,” he nodded in return, attempting to look surprised, and shuffled uncomfortably. “Well, I see there’s no reason for my visit anymore-“

“Nonsense!” Jeremiah cut him off. “I appreciate the effort, Captain. Please, do come in, you must be truly exhausted. The traffic had to be abhorrent, I imagine.”

“Thank you,” Jim smiled and crossed the threshold. It was very unusual for the youngest Valeska to extend common courtesy, but perhaps he simply felt safer in the presence of another human being, especially if they happened to be a trained officer of the law.

“How are you feeling?” he asked when the three of them comfortably situated themselves in the living area. He pointedly ignored several empty bottles scattered on the glass table, focusing on the property owner instead. Though to think of it, he had a pretty solid idea of what might have prevented Jeremiah from answering the incoming calls.

“As fine as to be expected, I guess. You know what my... opinion of Jerome is,” the engineer chuckled self-depreciatingly.

“I do,” Jim simply agreed, thinking of hate and all-consuming fear. “I assure you, though, that there’s no way for him to break free this time around. The security measures at Arkham have been heavily improved since his latest stay.”

“Improved?” Jeremiah perked up. “Improved how, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Well...” Jim trailed off, contemplating what information might be safe to share with a couple of civilians, one of whom also happened to be underage (while second wasn’t exactly trustworthy).

However, no sooner had he prepared himself to disclose a few details than his cellphone rang. He almost felt relieved, if not for the fact that nobody called him at such an hour unless there was a work-related emergency.

“Captain James Gordon,” he picked up the phone, not bothering to glance at the caller-ID.

“Jim, there was another one!” Harvey bellowed urgently, loud enough for the other two occupants of the room to overhear without difficulty. “Appears to be pretty fresh too. I’m texting you the address.”

He stared at the silent device in something akin to stupor, his brain refusing to comprehend what had just transpired, until an incoming message lit up the screen. After that everything came to him at once, and he swore passionately, unmindful of the audience.

“It’s him, isn’t it? Your killer,” Jeremiah stated suddenly. “Are you going to... concede to his bidding, now that Jerome is awake?”

“What? The hell are you talking about?” Jim frowned, his mind already at the crime scene.

“Well, everyone knows that he wanted you to turn off Jerome’s life support,” Bruce helpfully supplied, looking at him expectedly.

“What? Absolutely not! Unrepentant criminal or not, everyone deserves to receive medical help and lawful sentence, and last time I checked the death penalty wasn’t sanctioned in this state,” Jim replied, appalled at the very idea (however tempting it sounded). “Anyway, I must be going now, you understand.”

“Me too, I guess,” Bruce joined in, following his suit.

“Very well. I’ll see you out,” Jeremiah got up as well with an air of resigned acceptance. He proceeded to quickly lead the guests though the maze without further ado, and a few minutes later Jim was already breathing in fresh air.

“Bruce, I’m afraid you won’t be able to come here for a while. I intend to lock myself in until everything calms down a bit,” he heard Jeremiah say, but paid it no mind.

He wasted no time in getting in his car and speeding towards the unknown, barely remembering to send a laconic text to Alfred. The young men would sort themselves out on their own, he was sure.

**JVJVJV**

Despite the fact that Jim considered himself a seasoned, hardened policeman, never mind his previous exposure to this very killer’s horrid deeds, the sight that greeted him was nothing sort of nausea-inspiring butchery. In hindsight, it was really foolish and juvenile of him to think that he’d already witnessed the murkiest depths of human depravity and couldn’t possibly be confronted with anything new in that department.

The latest Ripper’s ‘masterpiece’ derisively laughed in his face.

Literally, since there was a deep gaping cut all across the victim’s neck that resembled a smile. It stood out rather prominently — no small feat, considering the state which the rest of the body was in.

No word could describe it other than _fucking bloodbath_.

“Captain!” Dr. Rosen was first to notice him, as per usual. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell you at the moment. Well, the victim is obviously male, but we have difficulty establishing even his age. You see, there’s a new adjustment to the post-mortem facial mutilations. This poor guy is sporting a Chelsea grin in addition to the other scars. My best bet is that such a deviation from M.O. was prompted by the recent news concerning Jerome Valeska’s state.

“Cause of death is... well, it’s hard to tell at the moment, what with all the flayed skin, but it has to be either that or the severed neck. Or just as likely something else entirely, since it’s impossible to spot any additional injuries under such excessive amounts of coagulated blood without thorough medical examination.”

“Right,” Jim coughed, trying to prevent the image from being forever imprinted on the underside of his eyelids. “What about the... method in reference to medieval practices?”

“Oh, it’s quite simple, really,” the expert sighed, sounding honest to god _disappointed_ in the killer’s apparent lack of creativity. “Skinning had been a fairly common punishment up until early 18th century, applied to blasphemy among a number of religion-unrelated things. It was usually performed post-mortem, though, contrary to our case. Well, unless we take into equation Saint Bartholomew, who was rumored to be flayed alive.

“Come to think of it, his skin was also completely removed — including his face, but we know why our killer refrained from following through with that part. Thus it might be a tribute to that execution in particular, especially considering that we’re already aware of his deep fascination with scriptural motives and his knowledge of the Christian pantheon of saints.”

“Thank you,” Jim nodded. “You sure he must have already come by the information regarding Jerome?”

“Well, look for yourself,” the doctor snorted condescendingly, gesturing at the corpse that was completely devoid of any traces of skin from the neck downwards. “Does it seem like a work of a calm, collected, clinical individual that we’ve borne witness to for a dozen times already? I think not.”

“Yeah, it definitely doesn’t,” Jim conceded.

“Excellent! I’m glad we’re on the same page,” the expert smiled with smug satisfaction. “Additionally, the flaying itself was performed rather carelessly. In regards to any other murderer I might have attributed it to their inexperience with such a technic, but we both now well enough that the same cannot be said about this perpetrator in particular. Such things had never hindered him before, and I doubt this could have possibly changed. Therefore, I conclude that this clumsiness must have originated directly from the unexpected news. I imagine it was a harsh blow to take for someone with such a strong opinion on the matter.”

“Sounds perfectly reasonable,” Jim nodded once again. “Thank you for... Wait, what is it inside the gaping hole in the neck? Doesn’t look like a Colombian necktie to me, though I might be wrong.”

“Oh, haven’t I told you?” the good doctor brightened, visibly pleased with such a turn of events. “It’s a piece of cake, really, probably more literal than you’d expect. Please, have a look.”

He skipped to the body with a ‘come hither’ gesture, to which Jim reluctantly obliged. However, one glance at the contents of the cavity made him gag.

“There, there. Calm down, will you?” Dr. Rosen sighed in disappointment. “As you hopefully may have noticed, the tongue was removed down to radix linguae, and in its place was situated this fine rose sewn from human skin, no doubt a message to myself. Not all of the available skin, of course, since otherwise it simply wouldn’t fit. I suspect that the rest was taken as a trophy, though it also contradicts the usual M.O. Perhaps it has been merely disposed of somewhere else so as not to sullen the display.”

“Perhaps,” Jim agreed as though in a daze, unable to stop thinking of the blossoming petals even for a second. “Thank you for your insight.”

“Anytime, Captain,” the expert smirked for a split second, before his expression morphed into something more appropriate for a medical examiner at work. He left without a word, determinedly striding towards a group of people clad in protective gear and smocks.

Jim decided not to bother him anymore. He had seen the body, gathered all the intel that was available at the moment, and therefore was free to go, at least until anything urgent presented itself or the next workday rolled around, whichever came first.

Back at home he stretched out on the sofa, popping joints on his way down, and turned on the TV, immediately switching from the news to some mind-numbing comedy (or drama, perhaps; it was hard to tell these days). His day was probably the most emotionally draining as of late, and the ones ahead hardly promised to fare any better. This meager relaxation was all he needed at the moment (in absence of better ways to recharge himself, such as basking in Lee’s soothing presence, which he refused to think about).

His pathetic reprieve turned out to be short-lived, though. He’d just barely managed to get absorbed into the plot when the convincingly wailing main heroine first stopped moving, then morphed into static noise, and suddenly the blinding logo for the breaking news appeared.

Jim turned off the telly as soon as he caught a glimpse of Arkham front gate and promptly threw the remote control across the room. The thud of it colliding with the wall sounded suspiciously like a nail in the coffin. Most probably Jim’s.


	12. X.I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! It came to my attention that the chapter is decent enough without the last part, so I decided to split it in two (again). Brace yourselves for the flashiest Carver’s kill in my next update (which will be posted as soon as I’m somewhat satisfied with the graphic description of gore).  
> I’ve also penned down the previous kills in chronological order, which I hope will be helpful for this chapter. Here you are:  
> 1 — stabbed neck  
> 2 — displayed atop a car in Narrows  
> 3 — chest cavity is cut open  
> 4 — crucified+eyes are brutally ripped out  
> 5&6 — the God and the Prayer  
> 7 — beheaded figure in front of an altar  
> 8 — sawed from the crotch down to collarbones  
> 9 — seppuku with heart removal, surrounded by flowers  
> 10&11 — torso mutilated by cat’s claws, facing the Witness who was fastened to a spiked chair and bled to death  
> 12 — Saint Sebastian shot with crossbow bolts  
> 13 — flayed skin+Chelsea grin

He stretches his limbs as far as possible with the bindings that significantly restrict his range of motion still intact, grinning in satisfaction at the sound of cracking joints. Not that he couldn’t easily free himself from these pathetic so-called ‘shackles’ if need be, but he knows it’s not the time yet. His body is well-rested and devoid of most usual aches and pains, of course, but he isn’t strong enough for a successful escape attempt.

Not surprising, really, considering how much time he’s spent laying motionless in bed.

His agility is coming along nicely, though, if a little too slowly for his liking. Soon he will return to his full health, and then the Gotham peasants, relaxed and complacent in their false sense of security, will be reminded of what the true _chaos_ means. He will show them all, each and every one of those willfully blind fools, what the world they try so hard to hide from really is.

And this time, this time will be different, yes. Because his brother has finally shed his carefully crafted person suit born of lies and deception. Even if no one so much as suspects it yet, Pandora’s box is open now, and it won’t ever be closed again.

All because Jerome made it happen. His greatest achievement, forever hidden from anyone barring the two of them, just like in good old times. Well, them and Jonathan, but he doesn’t matter.

And boy, will his baby brother blaze like the brightest of stars.

Jerome came to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t be able to witness Jeremiah’s blossoming magnificence, of course, long before that suicidal stunt with hostages, but now the tables are turned once again.

Not that he is complaining — far from it. In fact, he hasn’t thought of a way to finish himself off at all since his return to the world of the living several days prior, which is longer than any bout of good mood from the day he’d woken up alone and feeling terrible emptiness where his brother’s comforting warmth should have been.

Jerome must have done something truly remarkable if the fates (or whatever external force there is) have finally rewarded him so.

And more than that, there’s also this new ingenious serial killer with truly remarkable creativeness in the picture. He cannot wait to meet the lad and play with him some!

Breathless and giddy, he laughs to himself at the thought of how their encounter might go. No one’s ever bestowed such wonderful gifts upon him before!

Alas, this will also have to wait. He cannot exactly meet up with that mystery person whilst locked up in this dreary shithole of an asylum, now can he?

Ah well, all in due time.

Time is what he now has in spades.

**JVJVJV**

As promised, Jim returned to Arkham at his earliest convenience, which happened to be after yet another week. He fully intended to do it much earlier, of course, but the public wasn’t kind to him these days.

And after the ruckus of dealing with the massive backlash and dozens of protestors out in the streets calmed down a notch, nervousness came in its stead. Everyone was sitting on the eggshells, waiting for new body to show up, but days passed and nothing seemed to happen.

If anything, it only made Jim even more uneasy than he already was. His gut screamed that something big was ominously looming on the horizon, and the fact that he couldn’t prevent it — or predict, at least — drove him mad.

Thus he understandably wasn’t in the best mood to deal with Valeska, but he couldn’t postpone it for purely selfish reasons when lives were at stake.

“Hi Jimbo!” the psychopath greeted him cheerfully. “What brings you in this fine establishment on this lovely day?”

“Just my job, I assure you,” he dryly retorted.

“Your job, you say? Is it perhaps in any way related to that tantalizing little folder you cradle so protectively in your arms?” the madman beamed. “C’mon, Cap, don’t be shy! Gimme your gift!”

Jim took a step back, instinctively squeezing his hands tighter. It was completely irrational, of course, since showing the contents of the folder was exactly why he came here in the first place, but he just couldn’t help himself. An eager Valeska meant most unpredictable and dangerous one, and everything in his heart screamed not to give in to any of his opponent’s requests.

It took a great deal of effort to stop his deeply ingrained response and just _let go_.

“You wanna take a look at these?” he smirked, for a moment feeling as if he was not standing on solid concrete, but careening from a great height instead. “What a fortunate coincidence! I want you to as well.”

Jerome eyed him warily, probably debating on his sanity (and wasn’t that the most ironic happenstance in his whole life?), but took the offering with his unshackled hand. The lunatic then proceeded to cautiously open the folder, as though afraid that it would bite him any minute, and took a sharp inhale.

He stared at the first sheet, pupils blown wide and breathing labored, and reached out his shaking hand to the image.

“Is this what I think it is?” he asked softly, almost wonderingly, and caressed the disfigured face that was depicted in great detail. God, not that Jim expected his interlocutor to freak out, of course, but such a display was too morbid even for his standards.

“Yes, I believe it must be,” he replied at last. “In case you’re thinking of all the Carver’s victims in chronological order, that is.”

“What do you intend to gain from showing me this?” Jerome hoarsely inquired, gently picking up the photo and putting it aside to examine the next one. His scrutiny was even more intense this time around, and Jim briefly wondered why before remembering that the clown had no way of knowing how his second (almost) death looked like from aside.

Well, if he wanted to get to know it so badly, he probably had the best source for it.

“Fascinating,” Jerome breathed out, flipping through the next few pages that offered more detail to the second and then third and forth kills, and came to a halt at the sight of the display known as ‘The God and the Prayer’. The redhead suddenly smiled, something incomprehensible blooming in his eyes, and Jim mentally pat himself on the back for deciding against bringing in a copy of Vale’s article.

God knows, the bastard probably would’ve found it flattering.

Jerome fetched the photo of ‘the Prayer’s face from examination table that pictured the mask up close, bringing it to his eyes with the same disturbing smile, and — _kissed_ the orifice above the victim’s mouth.

“The fuck are you?..” Jim trailed off disbelievingly.

“Don’tcha worry, Jimbo, I won’t disturb the piece of your mind with my freakishness again,” Jerome flashed him a smirk and resumed the examination, though now he took a pause to seemingly admire almost every photo.

Jim audibly clicked his mouth shut, intent to push the oddity out of his consciousness, since he didn’t particularly fancy the idea of losing what little sanity he had left any time soon.

“What is it?” his interlocutor inquired, tapping his nail on the spot depicting a figure fastened to the ‘yoga chair’, as Dr. Rosen had so eloquently put it.

“ _He_ is the witness of the previous murder, the one with flowers,” Jim explained dryly, incensed at Jerome’s word choice.

“A witness?” the psychopath’s brow flew impressively high. “How come you are here, seeking my assistance, if that was the case?”

“The poor teen hadn’t been able to recall anything of value,” Jim sighed, seeing no point in deflection.

“And yet he’s dead nonetheless.”

“Indeed,” Jim conceded easily, his fatigue getting its tall on him. “Wait, are you getting somewhere with this? You noticed something?”

“I don’t know, Cap,” he got in return, though he couldn’t help but feel as if Jerome knew perfectly well whatever it was. “Tell me, o mighty policeman, did the lad manage to disrupt your killer’s work in any way, after all? That deathbed seems pretty much finished to me.”

“Yes. Yes, he did,” Jim frowned. “Our forensic expert pointed out that one of the facial scars went haywire. The murderer still flawlessly escaped the police cordon, though. Why? Does it have any specific meaning?”

“Of course he did,” Jerome muttered with something almost akin to affection, then caught himself and shrugged disinterestedly, not bothering to turn away from the images for even a second. “Well, as a child I didn’t like anyone stealing my toys either. It’s pretty common for someone of our particular _pathology_ , per se, as I’m sure you already know. Don’t go looking for anything deeper than that.”

“If you say so,” Jim drawled challengingly, but as expected, got nothing in return.

Jerome barely displayed any interest towards the twelfth victim, but visibly perked up the moment he laid his eyes upon the thirteenth.

“When did it happen? After the general public became aware of my return?” the psycho stated more than asked, and Jim was once again uncomfortably reminded of the sharp intelligence that laid underneath the brash and loud facade.

“Yes. How could you tell?” he inquired suspiciously.

“Well, he was positively _furious_. And besides, there’s a Chelsea on your vic’s face, commonly used to punish those who dared to back off from whatever deals they’d secured. In my case it would be deal with the death, I imagine, never mind the fact that previous kills sported my scars in uncanny detail, which stood for consistency and stagnancy, while this additional mutilation signifies that whoever it is is not done with me yet. It’s all pretty obvious, honestly. Do you not possess any investigative skills whatsoever?”

Jim let the insult slide, captivated by Jerome’s conclusions made seemingly on spot. And it all appeared startlingly believable, too. If only his interlocutor wasn’t a psychopath who’d murdered his own mother at the age of eighteen, he would’ve made a great addition to the police department.

Jim couldn’t fathom how no one, himself included, had thought of the latest kill from this angle before. _Probably a mental proclivity thing_ , he consoled himself.

“Can you tell me anything else?” he asked the prisoner, who by now had returned to the ninth murder.

“What are these flowers?” Jerome inquired absentmindedly, ignoring the question.

“Stars-of-Bethlehem,” Jim brushed him off. “It’s nothing important, just one more religious reference. There’s already plenty of them, as you might see.”

“Religious reference?” Valeska arched a brow. “I take it you’ve connected everything to something Christianity-related one way or another, then?”

“Yes,” he frowned. “You have other ideas?”

“My, I don’t know,” the infuriating bastard smirked, radiating smugness. “First three kills certainly don’t seem like that to me, and the cross in the forth one doesn’t necessarily indicate something of the sort. After that your guy had just probably caught wind of your splendid theory and decided to go with it. Really, I won’t be surprised if it turns out that all these glaringly obvious references plastered all over the kills are just a way for him to fuck you lot over.”

“That would imply that whoever commits these murders has got an unlimited access to our work, which hints at his close ties to GCPD,” Jim argued, though deep down he knew that there was no other way the perpetrator would be so successful. His interlocutor merely shrugged, apparently done with ‘helping’.

“So that’s it, then? You won’t be contributing something more useful?” Jim angrily demanded. “Somehow I doubt that you haven’t gleaned anything else from the photos, not to mention your godawful hints during my previous visit.”

“ _Hints_?” Valeska snorted incredulously. “Oh my, Gordon, you sure are at your wits’ end if you imagine something like that. Do you hear yourself? How could I possibly have known anything about your elusive perp even before these pics? Not that my insight changed all that much now that I’ve got the chance to see them.”

Jim opened his mouth to argue, but apparently the lunatic wasn’t done yet.

“Don’t worry that your effort is wasted, though. It’s a perfect blasting rope material, I tell ya! I’ll make sure to jack off to it coupla times!”

“You are horrible,” Jim groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to ignore the bellowing laughter. His remark, of course, only prompted Jerome to laugh louder.

“Are you quite finished?” he deadpanned after the assault on his eardrums died out, receiving a nod. “Wonderful. I couldn’t help but notice that you aren’t particularly concerned for your continuous existence. You’ll never help me out of compassion, I know, but surely your own life means something.”

“Really, Jimbo?” Valeska shook his head, as though sorely disappointed. “I confess I expected better from you. My ‘continuous existence’? Honestly, it’s a bit insulting how quickly you’ve forgotten that I basically committed a suicide — the image that, might I add, is still fresh in my mind, since I’ve just woken up. What makes you think that I give a fuck whether I live or not?”

“You’d lost back then. We’d managed to ruin your plans, and letting go seemed perfectly understandable for someone of your... volatile psyche,” Jim argued, convinced of his theory. “Now, however, things are different. I’m sure you’ve contemplated your escape a dozen times at least. You have no reason to give up just yet.”

“Really now?” Jerome sneered. “Such a good psychiatric expert you are. I was upset about my defeat, yes, but I could have chosen a different escape route — one that actually led somewhere, for instance. I could have easily picked up the pieces and moved on, _just as I always do_. I didn’t, though. Now tell me, _Doctor Gordon_ , why is that?”

Towards the end of his impromptu speech the psychopath’s voice sounded increasingly raw, borderline hysterical. Jim sat there, reeling. Was it possible that Jerome had indeed contemplated killing himself for a while before the roof incident? Looking back, it seemed likely.

But surely the professionals would have noticed it during his stay in Arkham... right? Jim distinctly remembered that there was nothing of the sort in asylum’s file on Jerome Valeska, except perhaps for the brief mention of mild depression.

God, he didn’t know what to think. Such a revelation would’ve changed everything — and nothing at all at the same time.

 _It doesn’t matter_ , he reminded himself. Indeed, it didn’t offer any consolation to Jerome’s numerous victims. They would’ve probably been insulted by the idea of them being nothing more than a means to sublimate their killer’s suicidal tendencies.

“Very helpful, thank you,” he broke the silence. “It undoubtedly means a world to me.”

“Well, what did you expect?” Jerome huffed. “I can add that I’m also flattered by all this attention from my biggest fan and therefore don’t wish for him to stop. Does it satisfy your curiosity?”

“So you do admit that you know more than you let on?”

“I don’t know, Cap,” the amused psychopath snorted. “Whaddaya think?”

“We are done here!” Jim snapped, storming out of the cell. Deranged laughter was quick to follow.


	13. X.II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now on the night I arrived  
> My daddy said “Sake’s alive!”
> 
> You can probably do the same, I guess. (What I mean is I’m so, so very sorry. If it’s any consolation, I’ve had rough... five months? Yeah, sounds about right.)
> 
> Anyway. If you don’t remember what transpired in previous (and better, all things considered) half of the chapter, which is only to be expected, here’s the quick summary:  
> After strewing around quite a number of corpses in quick succession, our resident serial killer with a trashy moniker ‘the Carver’ (or slightly more appropriate ‘the Ripper’) apparently decides to lay low, which makes Jim and his incredibly effective team of investigators twitchy and anxious for the other shoe to drop. Despite his great reluctance, Jim opts for a second trip to Arkham, where our favorite anarchistic drama queen is biding his time, planning his escape once he regains his full strength. Jim hopes to get Jerome to assist him with capturing the perp before that shoe drops with flying colors, but of course it doesn’t quite go as planned. All that the poor Captain does manage is providing Jerome with quality wank material.
> 
> Aaaand now that we’re on the same page, please enjoy (or try to) the second part of this mammoth of a chapter. If I followed my notes there would’ve been a third one, to be honest, but I think I’ll be able to squeeze the rest in the 11th (and maybe 12th) chapter(s), which is already in the works.  
> I also apologize in advance for lack of a proper gory description of the crime scene. For some reason all my attempts to visualize it on paper turned out worse than not saying anything at all. However, you can google the painting and picture it yourselves, if you’d like. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to overcome this particular block.

He has never been so daring before, but the novelty of this situation doesn’t deter him in the slightest. His movements are sure and precise, hands firm and solid, as he returns to arranging the details of his future masterpiece as he sees fit, not once bothering to glance at the reference. The point is not in the complete mimicry, after all, and the display will still be recognizable enough.

Taking into account that at least one of the investigators will turn out to be cultured enough, of course. Not simple-minded Gordon, certainly.

He is humming softly to himself with a tender, dreamy smile dancing on his lips, he realizes, but makes no effort to stop. He suddenly remembers the tune from his long-buried childhood, strikingly, as if a veil has been lifted. It’s strangely soothing, despite all the baggage that comes with.

He steps back to examine his wonderful work, tipping his head to the side as if admiring a renowned piece in an art gallery. Then frowns and decides to reassemble a few details of the centerpiece.

Now it’s just _perfect_ in its intricate simplicity. Far better than the original even, he believes.

Perhaps he should have pursued the career of an artist instead? Or a sculptor? But no, it wouldn’t be the same.

Will the police finally be able to pick up his track after this, he wonders? Seems unlikely, but who knows what hidden brain sells might suddenly manifest themselves in those thick skulls of theirs.

He will be prepared to welcome them _heartily_ just the same, of course.

Sending one last cursory glance at his tableau, he gathers his things and leaves the scene behind, pausing to send anonymous tips to GCPD and the press when he deems the distance safe enough. He quickly disassembles the burner phone and disposes of it, then his nitrile gloves, and carries on, humming that same tune under his breath.

His project is coming along nicely, and he couldn’t be more satisfied with how all the pieces have fallen right where he wanted them, ready for him to rip the reward.

And ripping the reward (or making a major step towards it, at least) is what he does when he contacts the bunch of disposable puppets he’s easily acquired recently, signaling for them to proceed as planned. He grins savagely when hears the distant explosion; the game has just entered its final, most challenging stage.

Now, not to forget to get rid of his cronies — working well with others has never been one of his strong suits. Besides, dead men do not speak, and it is best to err on the side of caution even if they cannot actually testify against him, seeing that they’ve never met in person.

Oh, who is he kidding? He just finds it satisfying to remove this blight on the worthy, intelligent people of the world. And somewhat reduce Jerome’s ridiculous cult in numbers, even if it won’t make any sort of significant impact on the whole thing anyway.

**JVJVJV**

“Captain Gordon!” familiar voice cried out in something akin to relief. Jim paused, patiently waiting for the doctor from his previous visit to finally catch up with him. If nothing else, the shrink could provide a sufficient enough distraction from the disaster that was his dialogue with Jerome.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re still here, Captain!” the doctor panted, leaning on the nearest wall. “Visiting Valeska, are you? That’s most fortunate coincidence, because I was about to send for you when the receptionist deemed it important enough to mention that you’d actually passed the security quite a while ago. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to intercept you on your way back.”

“Well, as you can see, you managed,” Jim responded warily, a foreboding feeling entering his mind. “What happened, Doctor?”

The other man shifted in clear agitation. “To be honest, I’m not quite sure myself,” he confessed, shrugging a bit helplessly. “But it appears as if a few members of our crew are... missing.”

“Missing,” Jim repeated flatly, that unpleasant feeling raging in him at full force.

“Precisely,” the psychiatrist nodded. “We haven’t taken notice before, because here at Arkham we strongly respect privacy of our employees during their days off, but when three of them hadn’t shown up on the same shift, we couldn’t help but suspect something... sinister at work. Especially since all of those orderlies possess clean records and never once displayed such unusual behavior. Moreover, we’ve contacted everyone who’s not there today immediately upon this discovery, of course, and we have reason to believe that there’s a forth missing member of staff. _At least_.”

His interlocutor muttered the last part almost to himself, but Jim of course heard him nonetheless. Not that he felt like pointing out the sheer incompetence such a ridiculous remark indicated, too wound up to pick a fight now of all times, so he swallowed the snide comment before the words could make it past his lips.

“So, I take it you want to fill in Missing Persons reports?” He offered after a short awkward silence. “How much time has passed since disappearances, by your estimation?”

The shrink shifted like a guilty kid caught red-handed with an empty cookie jar, nothing at all from the cocky psychiatrist in his stance. Honestly, it was as though he were a completely different man. “Well, it’s frankly rather hard to tell, you know. As I said, we aren’t in a habit of intruding upon our employees’ privacy during their free time. But the first orderly went missing no later than the day before yesterday, thus the other three must be gone for about 48 hours as well, assuming the cases are linked, of course.”

“Excuse me?” Jim barked with no small amount of incredulity. “What do you mean the day before yesterday? Why on earth did you fail to alert the GCPD then? You do realize that your indecisiveness might very well be the reason that all those people are dying as we speak — or dead already? Right?”

“Why, I can hardly be blamed for not raising any alarms when Mr. Brown hadn’t showed up for his shift two days prior,” the doctor snapped, at the moment resembling himself more than in previous ten minutes combined. “You see, he has a repulsive habit of occasionally ditching the organization he works for in favor of nurturing his alcoholism. I became mildly concerned yesterday, since he usually misses no more that a day, but still thought noting of it — well, except for bringing the necessity of his services into question, _again_ , but that’s beside the point. Today, however, when _three_ model staff members failed to check in, I began to suspect that something untoward might be at play, and _immediately_ set to convince the others to reach out to you, despite your less then exemplary behavior during your latest visit!”

“How very... flattering,” Jim finally murmured, unsure of what else to say in face of such violent emotional outburst on part of someone he genuinely disliked. The pent-up anxiety and creeping suspicions must’ve been catching up with the good doctor at long last, it seemed.

Not that Jim could hold it against him. He was pretty unsettled himself these days.

“My apologies,” he stiffly conceded, hopefully sounding sincere enough. “Would you like to accompany me to the precinct to fill in those reports now?”

The psychiatrist eyed him suspiciously, but nodded. “Yes, please. That was the idea, actually.”

“Alright, come along then,” Jim motioned in the direction he’d previously been heading and resumed his brittle pace. His interlocutor kept up, only pausing once to pass his crisp white coat to one of the orderlies, who accepted the garment without a question, probably already informed of the situation alongside the rest of the staff.

**JVJVJV**

They hadn’t gotten far from the asylum’s premises when Jim’s sell rang. He briefly thought with a sense of something akin to perverse amusement that a tendency of terrible news dropping on him in most inconvenient of situations had been formed in past several months, but banished it before his companion could’ve started to question his mental health (if he didn’t already).

“Harvey?” He asked, as weary as an old man.

“Jim! I hope you’re done with Valeska, ‘cause it’s urgent. It’s _him_! You know who I mean.”

“The Carver,” he nodded — unnecessarily, since his interlocutor had no way of seeing him. The shrink, almost forgotten under all the heavy thoughts that burdened Jim, perked up in the passenger seat. “But we’ve been waiting for it for weeks now. There’s something else, isn’t there? What is it?”

“You’d better see for yourself,” Harvey replied in strangled voice. “I’ll text you the address.”

“Harv-“

The call disconnected, and Jim swore angrily, barely refraining from throwing his cell in a fit of helpless rage. Thankfully, his practicality won over; now was so not the time to buy a new one.

The psychiatrist squirmed in his seat, obviously wishing to inquire into the matter but wary that it would be unwelcome.

“Care to join my team at the murder scene?” Jim saved him the trouble. “A professional opinion wouldn’t be remiss.”

“Of course,” the good doctor nodded confidently, emboldened by such an encouragement. “I’ve encountered my fair share of most troubled minds in my line of work, you realize, thus I’m positive I will be able to provide some input and hopefully bring you one step closer to finally catching whoever commits these murders.”

“Yeah, hopefully,” Jim muttered absentmindedly, already busy typing the address into his GPS. They didn’t have to drive that far, it turned out, and Jim was unsure whether or not to feel glad because of it.

In just under half an hour he would find out that no, he shouldn’t have been glad at all.

**JVJVJV**

Parking the car as deftly and casually as he could manage, Jim took but a moment to breathe deeply and somewhat compose himself, and then stepped outside, not willing to risk a civilian — a _stranger_ — witnessing his inner turmoil. As the slam of the driver seat door reverberated in the air, his whole team, for some reason gathered outside the entry gates to a six-storey parking lot, turned to look at him as one.

If he hadn’t gotten how _wrecked_ Harvey sounded on the phone, that would’ve been his first clue that something was very, _very_ wrong.

The second slam, much quieter and more careful that the first, brought him out of his increasingly pessimistic musings, and Jim made himself appear calm and collected through sheer force of will. Trying to act as if nothing out of the ordinary were taking place, he strolled towards his men, shrink in tow.

He made quick introductions for each member of his team (all but Dr. Rosen, who was nowhere to be found — probably staying inside, spellbound to the latest piece from their self-proclaimed artist) and then turned to his companion, floundering with what to say. “Everyone, this is doctor-“

“Price,” the psychiatrist interrupted, smiling blandly. “Dr. Graham Price, of Arkham, at your service.”

“Yes,” Jim coughed. “I’ve decided that at this point we should finally take the step that’s been hanging in the air for quite some time now and bring in a specialist in dealing with criminally insane.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Price turned that damn infuriating smile on him, stretching his thin lips even wider. “Let’s see the body then, shall we?”

That smug superiority that rattled Jim so during his first visit after Jerome had returned to the world of the living was back in full force, but he couldn’t afford aggravating the psychiatrist now. Talk about priorities.

“Yes, about that,” Harvey shifted, looking somewhat green in the face. Was it _that_ gruesome? Jim honestly believed he’d seen everything by this point. “It’s bodies. As in, plural.”

“We’ve already encountered the displays with two bodies at once,” Jim narrowed his eyes. “Just how many are there?”

“Seven,” Harper rasped, and Jim almost did a double-take.

“Excuse me?” he intoned slowly. “Did you just say _seven_?”

“Yes. They are...” she swallowed uneasily, trailing off. “Actually, you better see for yourself, Captain.”

The ominous words did nothing to disperse the foreboding feeling that’d taken root in Jim’s mind.

“Alright,” he swallowed uneasily. “Let’s have a look at the murder scene, then.”

His subordinates wordlessly complied, leading the way deep into the pristine parking lot. 

“God, someone sure has knocked off an entire fishing store,” Dr. Price commented with a weak chuckle that did nothing to mask his unease. Not that Jim could blame the man — he would’ve shared if not the whole sentiment, then at least the emotional part of it, if only he could spare any brainpower on anything other than willing himself to not throw up or break down then and there.

Which was completely illogical. He was a grown fucking man fully capable of getting over seeing a few corpses — _seven_ , dear Lord! — strung on some wires or cords woven through an unholy amount of hooks, and doing his fucking job! The display wasn’t even that bloody or anything, all things considered, but for some reason it felt like the last straw.

“They look... fresh,” he offered dubiously once he was able to find his voice.

Harvey nodded. “There was an anonymous tip. We’ve managed to pin the signal down to a burner cell, or what’s left of it, a few streets down from here. Nothing promising in the area, of course.”

Before he could reply to this (though Jim was unsure as to what his response could possibly consist of, other than empty platitudes that wouldn’t fool even a prepubescent fifth-grader, let alone make a seasoned police officer feel better), Jim saw a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye. It was the Arkham shrink, clearly agitated, who stopped just before one of the victims — the man holding what seemed to be _a ribcage_ with something gory stuck within in his outstretched hand. 

“Ah, Brown, there you are,” Dr. Price exclaimed, his voice a bizarre amalgamation of both pity and vindication. It took Jim a moment to correlate the name with one of the missing orderlies’, and he hastened to confirm his suspicion.

“Yes, yes, it’s him,” his interlocutor nodded distractedly, visibly reeling in from this new revelation. Jim certainly could relate — his feelings were also all over the place when he believed Oswald to be dead, even if he disliked the man.

“Do we have a positive ID?” Harper chimed in, sounding hopeful. “Because up until now we’ve been able to identify only one of the victims; none of the others appear in the criminal database, and dental records don’t work on such a short notice.”

“Yeah, Doctor, is there anyone else from your missing employees present?” Jim perked up. _At least this way we’ll be able to get the identification out of the way_ , he thought, then mentally slapped himself for being an insensitive asshole.

At that Dr. Price finally snapped out of whatever depth he went careening into in the face of Brown’s death, and helpfully supplied the names for five victims in total, four orderlies and a fellow doctor. Together with the man who seemed to be the focal point of this whole bizarre tableau, it left them with a single victim unidentified.

Bringing the shrink along had already paid off, and they had barely even started.

Of course, just as he thought that, a certain someone barged in to dampen his slightly improved mood. “Captain Gordon!” The current bane of his existence within the Department, one Dr. Rosen, cried out, hurrying over from a portable lab he’d been perusing just a moment before. “This guy sure has a bone to pick with Jerome!”

Oh, and here Jim thought that the other man couldn’t stoop any lower. Apparently his morbid sense of humor knew no depths.

Harper unsuccessfully stifled a snort, which prompted Jim to seriously reconsider his assessment of her character and professionalism. Dr. Price and the closest couple of rookies had no such qualms.

Honestly, was Jim the sanest person around here? Either that, or there must be something wrong with him.

He forcibly shook the stray thoughts off and once again made himself appear calm and collected. “Dr. Rosen, how fortunate of you to join us,” he smiled blandly. “I just meant to ask you a question; is there some etching for this... composition? I do believe I’ve seen something similar.”

“Etching? _Please_ , Captain,” the good doctor scoffed with so much condescension that Jim could barely refrain from acquainting the smug bastard’s teeth with his fist. “It’s obviously an almost exact effigy of Caravaggio. ‘The Taking of Christ’, to be precise. A world-wide renown masterpiece. Surely you cannot be _that_ undereducated.

“See,” he continued as if he didn’t just utter an insult to his superior, skipping towards the focal point of the macabre display — a man enveloping another in a tight hug, his grip somewhere between affectionate and restraining. The faces of both were scarred in a fashion that had become painfully familiar by now, which put him at an even more striking contrast with the rest of the group than the posture itself. “This,” he gestured at the hugged man, whose body language — meticulously arranged somehow, no doubt — seemed to convey his reluctance to accept the other man’s advances, “is Jesus, and his counterpart is Judas, obviously. The legend says that he’d kissed his mentor to identify him to the soldiers,” he pointed at three bodies to the right, excluding the one with the ribcage, “but I guess he couldn’t paint something that gay in sixteen hundreds.”

“You thing, colleague?” Dr. Price frowned contemplatively, as though figuring out the long dead artist’s motivations was more important than those of the killer at hand.

Jim pointedly cleared his throat. “Not that it isn’t interesting, but I believe we were in the middle of something.”

“A crime scene,” Harvey grunted, once again proving why exactly Jim considered him his best friend.

“Yes, well...” Dr. Rosen shifted in either affront or guilt, but never got to finish his sentence, because someone chose that moment to burst in and instantly redirect all attention to themselves. With growing sense of trepidation Jim recognized in the heaving figure usually so composed Michael Akins, his main competition for his current position.

“Akins?” He demanded, hiding his mounting unease by the skin of his teeth. “What is it?”

“It’s about the... the explosion,” the newcomer panted. “Thought you’d want to know.”

“What explosion?” Jim frowned.

“You didn’t hear?” Harper asked in astonishment, sharing incredulous looks with their amassed colleagues.

“It was massive, I tell you! Half the city must’ve heard the sound, at least,” Harvey added. “Though the blast came when we were already on the way here.”

“Yes, that’s why I decided to investigate immediately instead of alerting you, Captain,” Akins contributed, finally finding his breath. “The range of impact is truly horrific; all the windows are shattered in six blocks’ radius from the heart of explosion, which turned out to be Wayne Plaza. The number of casualties is not yet known, however-“

“Wait, did you just say Wayne Plaza?” Jim hurriedly interrupted.

“Yes,” Akins nodded, all traces of irritation hidden underneath the all-encompassing veil of tiredness. “ _However_ , Wayne Enterprises came forth with the information regarding the purpose behind the attack. It appears as if all equations and notes about their top-secret evolutionary technology, as well as all the working prototypes, went missing.”

“Which technology?” Jim asked weakly, dreading the answer.

“Clean energy generator.”

Jim’s heart sank.


	14. XI

The shouts of the mutinous flock (that seemed about ready to reinstate capital punishment just for Jerome) were deafening. It wasn’t that Jim couldn’t place himself in their shoes, because he absolutely could (and to be honest, wasn’t faring much better despite his training and all the years he’d spent on active duty), but he couldn’t help resenting them a bit as he was braving through the hysterical public that’d congregated all around the precinct that gloomy morning.

Thankfully, he managed to avoid making a scene both at the parking lot and later on, when he entered the building full of his hectic coworkers, by focusing all his impotent rage on the real culprit behind this whole mess.

 _One thing at a time_ , he reminded himself, going through a series of breathing exercises that were supposed to calm his nerves. Needless to say, it didn’t work out quite as planned, but at least he would be able to not sound like a snarling animal whilst making a phone call.

Which was a good thing, considering who it was he was about to get in touch with.

“Good morning, Captain,” his interlocutor answered on the second ring. “Or as good as it could get in your position, I suppose.”

“Good morning, Jeremiah,” he greeted without infection, though calling the other man by his birth name was somewhat of a dead giveaway.

If the youngest Valeska noticed Jim’s displeasure (which the over-observant bastard obviously did), he did not show it in any way, and breezed through the rest of their talk as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening, and his magnum opus hadn’t been stolen the night before.

Of course, it could’ve easily been a sign of great stress that Jeremiah was hiding through a tremendous force of will, but Jim couldn’t help the deep feeling of _wrongness_ that’d permeated his whole being during their brief conversation and refused to go ever since.

He placated himself with the engineer’s promise that he’d drop by the precinct as soon as he could manage. Jim would be able to take a closer look at Valeska then, and hopefully discern what it was about the younger man that was rubbing him the wrong way. For now he had a meeting to go through, so he put his inexplicable feelings out of his mind and tried to focus on the work at hand.

Not that it provided that much of a distraction, though, since the killer’s audacity hadn’t impaired his ability to blip under the radar without making a single mistake in any way that could be traced, and Jim wasn’t particularly thrilled to hear how many hours — _about 36 on the average_ — the victims suffered before the bastard was finally satisfied with the amount of torture he’d put them through.

At least the topic was covered in no time at all (after Harvey had lost his temper and put a stop to Dr. Rosen’s explicitly detailed descriptions of carnage).

Jim glanced at Harper, who seemed eager for her turn in the debriefing, even if Jim for the life of him couldn’t figure out what could’ve possibly made her this giddy. He didn’t remember any noteworthy task she’d had to undertake recently.

Thankfully, Jim didn’t have to keep guessing for long.

“I have something about that research I’ve led,” she announced, barely containing her excitement. “You remember the spiked chair that poor kid was butchered on? You sent two officers to check out local yoga stores and possible shipment traces.”

“Yes, of course,” Jim nodded confidently, even though the routine task had slipped his mind ages ago. “Are you telling me that they’ve found a lead? Why wasn’t I informed immediately, in that case?”

“They were about to, sir,” Harper defended her coworkers, “but I intercepted them before that could happen, because I also have some possibly related news on my front. Anyway, I’d prefer to start with their research, if you don’t mind.

“All the local stores and forges came up blank, unsurprisingly, but Officer Stone was able to trace an international shipment of what he thinks might be our device down to one Mr. Black. However, Mr. Black definitely cannot be our culprit, seeing that he is a low class factory worker, and his financial statements do not meet the price of this transition, so he must’ve been a decoy. Moreover, he appears to be missing, according to his family. Of course, several hours is not enough to be sure, but-“

“Harper,” Jim interrupted, “take a breath. I’m not about to punish you for independent thinking. You are a competent officer, and if you considered your actions appropriate, then it likely was so. Now, what about Mr. Black and his disappearance, and how certain are you that he had something to do with the chair’s smuggling?”

“Positive, sir. All the evidence points to the only possible conclusion. There’s nothing we were able to establish about his suspected kidnapping in such short a time, though. However, there’s also something about Mr. Black that bothers me,” she trailed off, obviously unsure of some theory that was running through her mind.

“What is it, Vanessa?” Dr. Rosen prompted with bated breath. The other occupants of the room nodded along.

“Mr. Brown...” she frowned. “He was once apprehended by GCPD... along with several members of Jerome’s cult for public disturbance and property damages, but we had to let them go due to lack of evidence and, well, that fabricated announcement about Jerome’s death.”

At that Jim had to frown as well. Just what would one of the cultists have to do with plotting his leader’s execution? It didn’t make any sense.

Of course, Harper voiced exactly that, and Jim had nothing to answer with, except...

“Perhaps,” he began unsurely, then cleared his throat. “Perhaps Mr. Brown didn’t see the situation the same way we do. He might’ve been manipulated into thinking that his participation was paramount to bringing Jerome back into the fold,” he exhaled slowly, feeling as though on the verge of a major breakthrough that would explain many things, but the thought didn’t get a chance to fully form; at that moment a receptionist rushed into the conference room, and the epiphany was gone.

“Captain Gordon,” the young man said. “There’s someone waiting to speak to you, and he says you insisted it was urgent. One Mr. Xander Wilde. Captain, he looks-“

“Yes, I know how he looks. He is Jerome’s brother, and I indeed asked him to speak with me. Please escort him to my office and say that I’ll be there in a minute,” Jim ordered, then turned to Harper. “In any case, we can do nothing but speculate on the matter at the moment. Let’s get back to other information you wanted to share, and make it quick. I have enough on my plate as it is without having to deal with Jeremiah’s bruised ego.”

“Alright,” she nodded, determined. “It’s about that research into collectibles with required parameters of our weapons. Despite our expectations, it actually wasn’t an exercise in futility, at least partially. Cat claws weren’t listed among any local collector’s possessions, and no one on the shady side admitted to ever seeing anything resembling such a device. However, the same cannot be said about the weapon of murder number nine, harakiri-“

“Seppuku,” Dr. Rosen grumbled, though without any real heat. Harper pretended not to hear him.

“-and found three likely matches. The items belong to Mr. Clark Williams, whose daughter was engaged to one of the seven journalists Jerome had killed during his first escape, Dr. Paul Johnson, whose colleague perished in the crossfire during his second escape, and Bruce Wayne. I understand that the evidence is flimsy at best, since the sheer number of people Jerome has had an impact on is staggering, but talking to them, at least, wouldn’t hurt.”

“I agree,” Jim nodded approvingly, hopefully hiding his wince at Bruce’s name being mentioned well enough. “Bring in Mr. Williams and Dr. Johnson for questioning, and moreover, don’t leave a single stone at their properties unturned. I’m going to sanction the search warrants post-haste, the judge surely won’t protest, considering the situation we’ve found ourselves in. If that’s all, I’ll be on my way.”

“Yes, that’s all, Captain. I’ll get to it right away,” Harper assured, but Jim was already halfway through the door and didn’t glance back at her. He knew that the woman was competent and meticulous in her work, and wouldn’t make a mistake when it came to something this crucial. Thus, he had every right to direct his concerns at something actually worth worrying over, like the Wayne Plaza robbery, or talking to the engineer that made him feel ill at ease.

“Mr. Wilde,” Jim greeted with as much cordiality as he could muster, despite the irritation that stemmed inside him at the blatant disrespect his interlocutor displayed by entering his office without its owner present. Sadly, bringing it up wouldn’t be productive for a fruitful discussion. “I apologize for the wait, though in my defense, I haven’t expected you to come by this early. It feels like I’ve talked to you on the phone less than an hour ago.”

“It’s quite alright,” Jeremiah waved him off with a smile, though there was something about it that put Jim on guard. “I had some business to attend to nearby, and decided to drop you a visit after its conclusion. Perhaps your feeling originates from the simple fact that we’ve indeed talked 58 minutes ago.”

“How observant,” Jim noted. “Perhaps you’ve also been able to deduce the reason behind the urgent summons?”

“I imagine it has something to do with yesterday’s burglary. My green energy generators were stolen from under Wayne Enterprises’ custody.”

“Exactly. You would’ve made a fine detective, Mr. Wilde,” Jim nodded, and didn’t miss the way Jeremiah’s brow briefly twitched as though in derision at the mere suggestion. “Moreover, the crime was committed by someone who knew all the safety codes. Now, I’m not suspecting you — you are perhaps the only person who had nothing to gain from this. Nevertheless, it’s a standard procedure; we ought to question everyone who had access to this sensitive information.”

“Including Bruce?” Jeremiah inquired, and Jim didn’t at all like what the bastard was alluding to.

“Yes, including Mr. Wayne,” he calmly answered instead of raising to the bait, “despite the fact that he had no interest in robbing his own company. However, this empty formality was not the only reason I invited you here.”

“Oh, was it not?” Jeremiah leaned forward, all of a sudden looking mildly intrigued and not trying to hide it. “And what would that other reason be?”

“It’s about the location itself, actually.”

“Wayne Plaza? What about it?”

“Well, you designed the building, did you not?”

At that Jeremiah looked taken aback, but quickly got a hold of himself. “Yes, of course, but what does that have to do with the robbery? Are you implying that I used my intimate knowledge of the construction to steal my own generators on the verge of getting the Nobel Prize, and reaping the rewards of multi-million contract on top of that? That would be completely illogical. I know you have your reservations because of my unfortunate origins, but this theory of yours is downright insane!”

“No, no, Mr. Wilde, that’s not what I meant at all,” Jim placated, bewildered with how incensed, _unstable_ Jeremiah appeared after what he perceived as questioning of his sanity. Something definitely wasn’t quite right with the younger man, there was no doubt left about that. “Truth be told, I simply wanted to ask you about the construction of the building. The explosion’s impact was staggering, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. What remnants of the bomb we’ve found so far indicate that the effect shouldn’t have been nearly as devastating, and we have no reason to believe that there was more than one explosive. Therefore, the building itself must have furthered the impact, and you are the one who designed it.”

“Ah, I see,” Jeremiah nodded, but didn’t look convinced. “Have you ever heard of evocation?”

“Evocation?” Jim asked, honestly confused. “What is that?”

His interlocutor smiled, slow and mocking. “It’s the art of evoking a spirit, Captain Gordon. Either you are mistaken, which is of course possible, you understand, or you should somehow contact late Thomas Wayne, because the blueprints I drew for him were perfectly structurally sound. However, I had no hand in the project afterwards, and thus have no way of knowing whether or not my employer followed through with my design without any adjustments that could have potentially compromised the safety of the building in question.”

“Are you implying that Mr. Wayne undermined his own headquarters’ construction?”

“Of course not,” Valeska denied. “Cannot say I knew the man all that well to tell either way, however. He may have taken the risk or he may not; in any case, my design had nothing to do with what happened. I am a very good engineer, Captain Gordon, and your insinuations are absurd, insulting even.”

“I apologize,” Jim conceded. Now that he thought of it, the younger Valeska twin was indeed too vain and meticulous to sabotage his own work, intentionally or not, and risk spreading rumors and doubts in his intellectual prowess. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Wilde, I’ll see you out.”

“I assure you, the pleasure is all mine,” Jeremiah smiled and shook Jim’s hand, getting up from the visitor chair with fluid grace that he usually went great lengths to conceal. There was something sinister about that smile, too, some underlining meaning that did not bode well for an observer, as though the engineer knew something no one else did and couldn’t contain his giddiness any longer. Jim became even more on edge than he was at the beginning of their conversation, but nothing at all happened while they trekked the precinct and reached the lobby, and he somewhat relaxed despite himself.

“Ah yes, there’s one more thing,” Jeremiah suddenly offered, and Jim’s heart sank. _Here we go_ , he thought. “I hear my disappointment of a sibling did not just fail at killing his worthless self, but prompted some strange ultimatums from concerned citizens — not that I could blame them, considering.”

“How do you know?” Jim asked defensively, but still relaxed a bit further. The younger twin’s wariness in regards to his brother had long since become a familiar territory by now, and the policeman was honestly surprised that the question didn’t arise earlier.

Jeremiah, the git, looked down on him in unguarded derision. “I do not wish to shatter your illusions, Captain,” he began, sounding sincere enough in spite of his words and the fact that every single interaction between the two of them suggested otherwise, “but television was developed decades ago, even before the Second War, and quickly became somewhat commonplace. It stands to reason that some... commotion of sorts in front of your department would be broadcasted.”

“Of course it is,” Jim muttered to himself, but unfortunately loud enough to be heard.

“Captain!” Jeremiah admonished, not even bothering to sound sympathetic anymore. “It’s perfectly understandable. Just take a look at all these people seized by their indignation and terror and tell me their plight is not worth shedding light on,” he gestured at the hysterical flock who were throwing themselves at the police cordon. “Disheartening, isn’t it? Though I might just have a perfect solution for your problem. Give him to me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Give Jerome to me,” Valeska repeated. “And you won’t have to worry about his heinous deeds ever again. The public would be placated, perhaps your serial killer as well. Everyone wins if you just follow through with something you’ve no doubt thought about a dozen times, at least. You do not wish to stain your hands or your conscience, I understand, and you don’t _have_ to. I’ll take care of everything.”

“Did you just ask me to sanction a premeditated murder?” Jim exclaimed, earning quite a number of curious glances. Thankfully, no one was in hearing range to the porch they stood at.

“Spirited, are you? And stubborn,” Jeremiah shook his head in amusement, not deterred in the slightest. “It’s not always a good thing, you know. There are times when you have to consider a bigger picture and back off, as I’m sure you’ve been reminded recently.”

Jim exhaled shakily, his fiasco with Strange still vividly fresh in his mind. But it wasn’t the same, was it? And he couldn’t let a sociopath (whether said sociopath admitted to it or not) convince him otherwise.

“I won’t even ask how you came by such an assumption,” he drawled slowly — exceedingly so, lest he gave away even more of his inner turmoil than he already did. “And it may or may not be true, but it doesn’t change the fact that I would never yield to your demands, or anyone else’s for that matter.”

“See? Not always a good thing,” Jeremiah sighed, tipping his hat in a mockery of respect. “Ah well, there’s always plan B,” at that moment the two front rows of the crowd stepped back, dragging their neighbors with them, and several uniformed men and women with painted faces stepped forward and in one swift movement raised their weapons at the policemen. “And B stands for _boom_.”

“What the hell?” Jim shouted, despite having figured it out already. Honestly, he should have expected something like this from the moment he’d seen how deathly pale Jeremiah had gotten at the news of his brother’s awakening.

In the meantime the gathered officers lowered their shields and pulled their own weapons (still formidable, though unlethal) at the unknown criminals, and more ran out of the department, led by Harvey. Valeska seemed decidedly unimpressed.

“You might not recognize Jerome’s followers as I’ve given them something of a make-over,” the madman calmly explained, ignoring the commotion, “but I’m sure they are as loyal to me as they ever were to him. Even more so, because I approached the sanest ones and was able to interest them quite easily, if I do say so myself.”

“And what do you think this would accomplish?” Jim asked warily. Jeremiah Valeska was many things, but stupid he was not. There must be something else in place, some ace up the engineer’s sleeve Jim was not aware of yet. “You managed to convince these lunatics to change their loyalties, which is, well, impressive, but what harm can they possibly do before my men pick them all off, starting with you.”

Jeremiah chuckled, and Jim didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Not. So. Fast,” the redhead singsonged, then turned dead serious. “I have bombs planted around this city, much, _much_ better than the one that destroyed Wayne Plaza. All you need to know is that if I hit this detonator,” he produced one out of the pocket of his coat, “Gotham is blown back to the Stone Age. Ah yes, and also that I’ve expropriated my own generators, I suppose — they are _easily_ converted into _bombs_.”

Jim took an instinctive step back, nearly colliding with Harvey’s bulk. “If you pull this trigger-“

“Your brains are blown to the back of you scull, you sick fuck!” His second-in-command interrupted with a snarl.

“Oh no, no no no,” apparently not taking offense, Jeremiah half-smiled like a parent patiently indulging their child’s silliness. “Dead man’s switch. You familiar? I’ve borrowed my brother’s idea and improved it. See what happens if you kill me; I imagine many people would praise you for making them watch their loved ones _crushed_ before their eyes. Or not so many, on the other hand — it depends entirely on the number of casualties you’d cause. Though I hear this is a busy hour.”

“You are more sick than your brother,” Harvey spat, trying to hide how shaken he was the same way he usually did. Judging by Valeska’s condescending expression, such defensive mechanism didn’t convince him either.

“Don’t compare me to that short-sighted psychopath,” the fledging terrorist hissed, then calmed down in a blink of an eye, which was alarming in and of itself. “He destroys things because he enjoys it, because he can — since you’re so incompetent it’s embarrassing. While I, I prefer to _create_ them, and take no pleasure in mindless violence for violence’s sake. Think about it; all I need is one small thing, and all those people will be safe. Can you honestly say that a rabid dog’s life is worth more than hundreds of innocent ones?”

“What are you talking about?” Harvey demanded.

“About his brother, obviously,” Jim answered.

“Precisely,” Valeska inclined his head in agreement. “I’ve politely asked your superior, Detective Bullock, to surrender Jerome peacefully, but honorable James Gordon declined. Now I’m asking again, with a little more leverage, as you can see,” he gestured at the motionless henchmen with his occupied hand. “A fair trade, I’d say.”

“And how can we be certain that you will follow through on your end of the bargain once you have Jerome?” Harvey demanded before Jim could do the same.

“Because I’m a man of my word,” Jeremiah simply stated, as though he couldn’t fathom that it wasn’t as easy as that. “And if that’s not enough for you, because I’m not a raging beast craving nothing but death and destruction, unlike my failure of a brother. No one has to die.”

“What about seventeen Wayne Enterprises employees and two passers-by?” Someone shouted from behind Jim’s back.

“Seventeen?” The bastard lifted a brow, appearing wholly unconcerned with what he must’ve dubbed as collateral damage. “My, I wonder what so many of them did in the building at such late an hour. I planned everything so that the casualties would be minimal, it’s not my fault if they decided to stay after hours for whatever reason. Bruce’s company will pay their families a hefty recompense, in any case, even if they were spying on my invention with full intention of selling it to a bigger bidder. Not that I know anything about that, of course — just guessing.”

“I see,” Jim murmured. “And what about that completely innocent elderly couple that happened to be _on the other side of the street_ at the time of explosion? And severe property damages in several blocks’ radius from the epicenter? If you’re as good of an engineer as you claim, surely you could’ve easily avoided all of it.”

“I’ve already told you, Captain Gordon,” Jeremiah sniffed. “And I was not lying. If Mr. Wayne implemented my design exactly as I modeled it, this would not have happened. I had no way of knowing that he changed it and thus created the explosive device in accordance with my own blueprints. The damages you speak of were an accident,” the sociopath shrugged, unconcerned. “I suppose Bruce’s father really was in a bit of a tight spot at the moment, financially-wise, and opted for cheaper materials. It happens all the time, and the architects are not ones to blame.”

“Unless they were the ones who exploited the buildings’ weaknesses,” Harvey muttered.

Before the dangerous criminal could take offense and react unfavorably, Jim took the reins of negotiation again; “And you expect me to believe you, Jeremiah? Rather convenient of you to accuse the dead, don’t you think?”

“I do not care whether you believe me or not,” Valeska retorted. “Though it’s not like I have anything to gain from lying to you, you know, and I prefer to avoid outright dishonesty if possible, unlike my good for nothing brother. I’m well aware that you now consider me a terrorist who needs to be put behind bars, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m the one holding your leash, so to speak. You do not need to believe my word about things long past when I might still destroy your present if you insist on refusing to do what I say.”

“And no regrets whatsoever? No second thoughts?” Jim demanded, no closer to finding a way out of this than he’d been at the start of this... this complete and utter disaster. “Even if the victims are but a shallow concern to you, you’ve blown up the best building you’ve ever built, compromised or not.”

“You haven’t read Gogol, have you, Captain Gordon? _I brought you into this world. It is on me to take it away._ Taras Bulba, If you were wondering. Besides, Wayne Plaza was never meant to stay all that long.”

“What do you mean?” Jim asked, no longer merely wishing to win some time.

“Enough. I tire of your stalling,” the bastard declared imperiously. “As I said, no one else has to die if you meet my only demand, and that’s all there is to it,” he paused to pull out his left hand _with another detonator_ , and Jim’s very being filled with dread. “Well, except for these people. I know seeing is believing, and I _do_ want you to believe me, so...”

With but a minuscule twitch of the madman’s finger a tall tower a few blocks down blew up in a fiery explosion. People screamed, showered in burning debris, Harvey shouted at the officers who blindly harried to the inflamed shell of a building, dozens of windows shattered, car alarms went off, and in the midst of it all stood Jeremiah Valeska, completely unmoved by the carnage he’d just caused.

“I’ll come by to collect my ransom in six hours,” the lunatic announced with honest to god _pride_ coloring his voice, and unhurriedly descended the stairs towards his followers.

“Wait!” Jim called weakly, despite not really knowing what to say, other than ‘I hope you suffer before you die, you sick bastard’ or some variation thereof.

“Six hours, Captain Gordon,” Jeremiah half-turned once he reached his destination. “The clock is ticking. Oh, and do try to neutralize a bomb if you happen to find one. It’d be a real blast.”

With that said, he confidently marched to who knew where, his robotic followers in tow, and Jim was left standing there, shell-shocked, and didn’t have a first clue what to do.

 _How the fuck has it come to this?_ he thought. No answer was forthcoming.


	15. XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry that the chapter is shorter than what you’ve come to expect from this work, but I’m having some technical difficulties at the moment and might not be able to update for a while (again, yes, I know). Please do tell what you think of this small consolation prize.

He smiles, satisfaction pooling deep in his stomach, warming him from the inside out. He did not know that sampling one’s success — tangible and _almost there_ , ripe for the taking, already within reach — would be quite as... _divine_. Like a revelation that shakes your whole world out of kilter and makes it all better, _freer_.

He does now.

Even after one sixth of the allotted time has passed, he still feels giddy, energized, _alive_. He cannot stop relishing the look of horrified realization warring with disbelief in Gordon’s eyes, of deep-seated _betrayal_ , as if he’s owed anything to the dim-witted man, and then let him down on a personal level.

In a way he has, he concedes, and doesn’t even try to fight the sadistic pleasure that stems from this realization. _Delicious_.

“One hour down, five more to go,” he singsongs, savoring the images of the prize that awaits him in such short a time like a seasoned wine.

He glances at the clock and smiles, anticipating the next act. ‘Proceed, my dear’ he types down and hits send, confident that everything will go precisely in accordance with his plans. His proxy’s never once let him down before, after all.

_Tick tock, James Gordon. Tick tock._

**JVJVJV**

“And I’m telling you, Jim, he is our killer!” Harvey shouted, banging his fist on the table. They’d been arguing for over half an hour already, and Jim was getting tired of this. The clock was ticking, as Jeremiah said; they didn’t have time to waste.

“And yet you haven’t made a single convincing argument,” he retorted as patiently as he could manage, wincing at the impending headache.

“He is a bloody lunatic, just like his up to no good brother! More so, because he’s managed to fool everyone around him for decades, all the while putting up a front of a functioning member of society! Fuck, who knows how many crimes he’s committed and got away with, hiding in that insane bunker of his — perfect for keeping prisoners, as you very well know, and torturing them for 36 hours straight without any risk of being discovered! What more reasoning could you possibly need?!” His best friend spat.

“I agree that his... place of residence is suitable for the killer’s needs, but so are many other places. It doesn’t prove anything,” Jim shook his head. “Look, I’m not saying that Jeremiah is a good person who isn’t capable of murder, I just don’t see why he would’ve done any of that.”

“ _Why_?” Harvey croaked incredulously. “That’s it? You dismiss my reasonable suspicions simply because you don’t know what could’ve driven _an insane hermit with a mile wide grudge against his brother_ — the one who just so happened to closely resemble most of the victims — to murder?” He paused, taking a deep breath. “He is a psychopath, and he snapped! That’s what psychopaths inevitably do at some point! If you don’t believe me, why don’t you ask Dr. Price? He finds my theory rather sound. And even if your protégé’s word is not enough, how would you explain away the fact that Valeska himself confessed that he’d taken control over his brother’s bunch of overzealous lapdogs, and must I remind you that one of those lunatics ordered the delivery of that blasted torture chair?!”

“Circumstantial at best,” Jim rebuffed. “Anyone could have played on an unstable person’s blind devotion.”

“You are just biased,” Harvey groaned helplessly, raising his hand when Jim made to protest. “No, admit it, you _are_ biased, and that’s why you refuse to see the truth.”

Jim scoffed. Biased? Him? Certainly not. He merely knew the engineer-turned-criminal, that was all, and that was also exactly why he found his friend’s ideas completely unrealistic.

Jim knew from the start that Jeremiah Valeska — or Xander Wilde, as he fancied himself — was not a kind, _good_ person who generally cared about other people’s well-being — their first encounter in the bunker made this fact very clear. However, it didn’t necessarily mean that he was inherently evil, like Harvey and Dr. Price seemed to believe. It simply meant that he didn’t have any restrictions when it came to something he wanted, and the only such thing that went against the law was Jerome’s death. If his brother didn’t survive the fall, Jeremiah never would have ‘snapped’, as Harvey put it. Jim was sure of that.

Besides, Jeremiah wouldn’t have relied this heavily on public opinion and just procedure if he wanted to get rid of Jerome quite as badly. He would’ve found a way to do it himself, simply and efficiently, and avoided any suspicion. Jeremiah had said that he didn’t revel in violence, and Jim believed him on that.

The whole mess with the bombs was horrendous and something that needed to be answered for, but it was an act of despair, of mounting hysterics and helplessness disguised as strength. Jeremiah could no longer stand his all-consuming fear, knowing that Jerome was awake and well and plotting, and lashed out like a cornered animal. Once all of this was over, the younger twin would no doubt regret how he’d ruined his own life for nothing.

Once it was over, yes, but not yet.

“Harvey,” he sighed. “Are you even listening to yourself? Jeremiah is a slave to efficiency, he would never have concocted such a convoluted plan with so many variables, when anything could have gone wrong at any point. If he needed to kill Jerome back when it all started, he would have just plugged him out of the life support. He wouldn’t have started psychotically murdering people in absurd hope that that would affect us the way he wanted and force our hand. And he’s too solitary to trust anyone else with what he felt was needed to be done.

“Think about it,” he coaxed. “He obviously had no problem with Jerome while he was still in a coma, according to both Bruce _and_ Alfred. It’s only after Jerome woke up that Jeremiah’s mental state abruptly deteriorated. He never would have wasted his generators, weaponized or not, on something as petty as bargaining for a single hostage. It defies logic. And the Carver, while obviously off the rails, is still logical and meticulous, which means they have to be two different people.”

“Perhaps,” Harvey allowed dubiously after a lengthy pause, though Jim didn’t doubt for a second that his heart wasn’t behind it. “But still-“

Whatever further inane arguments Harvey intended to throw at him, Jim would never know, because right then he was saved by a frantic young man, the newest addition to his department, who replaced the incompetent receptionist a couple of weeks ago.

“Captain Gordon!” The man cried out, not even flinching at the loud bang that came from the door colliding with the adjacent wall, as he was too focused on shoving his mobile phone in Jim’s face. “You need to see this!”

Jim would have reprimanded the rookie for slacking off if he hadn’t caught sight of what was happening on the screen.

There was a middle-aged man in a crumpled business suit, trembling and sweating profusely, glancing fearfully up at something — _someone_ — only he could see every once in a while. He was reading something from a stack of paper in his hands, too, but Jim couldn’t quite catch the man’s words over the pounding in his own ears.

And that was when his eyes finally registered the ‘breaking news’ colontitle below the image. God, and here he was thinking that his day couldn’t possibly get any worse.

“Summarize this in less than a minute, Officer,” he ordered, returning the device to its owner.

The rookie gulped, but then straightened up and determinedly cleared his throat. “Apparently a video has just been sent to the news station. There’s a hostage situation somewhere, with 15 civilians held captive, according to the man reading the script. The abductor demands that Jerome Valeska dies before sunset, and each hour’s delay would result in them ‘carving into one of these innocent men and women, perhaps starting with the kid’. And then camera briefly shifts to people lying tied up on the floor, and one of them is indeed a boy no older than twelve.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Harvey cursed, then started muttering under his breath, but Jim wasn’t listening. He drew a long, shuddering exhale through clenched teeth, teetering on the verge of a panic attack (he hadn’t had one since Bruce volunteered to be taken hostage by Jerome Valeska). This could not be happening, not now, not ever.

Why wouldn’t Gotham criminals just take a break for once?! Was it too much to ask?!

“Wait,” his brain finally rebooted. “Did you say ‘carving’?”

“Yes,” the young man swallowed uneasily. “Do you think-“

“Perhaps,” he couldn’t rule out this very likely possibility just because it was also the least favorable one. “We cannot tell for sure yet. Go contact the news, they must send us this video. We’ll be able to work from there,” _hopefully_ , he did not add. “And look up the weather forecast for today, we have to know when the sun sets.”

“Right away, sir,” the Officer saluted and dashed out of Jim’s office, leaving him and Harvey alone once more.

“Why do I feel like we are being maneuvered into a corner?” Harvey muttered. To tell the truth, Jim had no idea how to answer that, but the question seemed rhetorical anyway.

**JVJVJV**

“So we’re back to square one then,” Jim grudgingly admitted a little while later, when both teams sent to rummage through their suspects’ belongings came back empty-handed. “No headway whatsoever in tracking down the killer who, might I add, is most probably holding fifteen people at a gunpoint at this very moment.”

“Unless the techs manage to trace the live feed he’ll be starting in... less than six hours,” Harvey pointed out, though he didn’t sound particularly hopeful for that outcome, and with a good enough reason. “That is, if we refuse to do what he says.”

At those words everyone in the conference room turned to stare at Jim, and he didn’t need to be an expert in reading human emotions to understand what they were afraid to voice out loud. And indeed, it would’ve been so simple to just give in, maybe even kill two birds with one stone, but he just couldn’t. He never would’ve been able to accept that sort of responsibility and live with himself afterwards, no matter if the person he condemned was an unrepentant criminal or not.

But neither could he live with himself if he stood his ground and basically allowed all those people — fifteen hostages, as well as countless others who would perish in Jeremiah’s explosions — to die. A rock and a hard place, indeed.

“Or they might actually figure out his location from the video we already do have,” Harper contributed, trying for reassuring and pulling it off far better than Harvey had. Not that it brightened the defeated atmosphere all that much. “Robards tells me they’re almost done isolating all the background noises from the tape. He thinks he might recognize the general area it’s been recorded in.”

“That... sounds not bad, actually,” someone barked, surprised. Jim shared the sentiment to an extent, but it still wouldn’t narrow the search down to a single building. And even if by some miracle it did, they couldn’t just throw Jeremiah Valeska out of equation, and last time Jim checked the bloody lunatic was still very much out for his brother’s blood.

In the end, it all came down to the difficult decision he had to accept before it was too late.

“Alright,” he sighed, feeling as though the weight of the whole world was piling up on his shoulders. “Harper, call the Arkham, they’re not cross with you yet.”

“What?” She exclaimed, sporting the same look of incredulity as the rest of his team. “Are you-“

“Yes. I’m doing what I have to,” he confirmed grimly. “Let’s face it, if our local genius manages to locate the Carver in time, then great, but that doesn’t change the fact that Jeremiah Valeska and his bloody bombs are still out there, and we can hardly do anything about it in roughly two and a half hours we’ve left. Are you willing to live with the hundreds of casualties our resistance would bring about? Well, I’m not!” He panted, only just realizing that he’d been yelling. For a few moments no one said a word, apparently as flabbergasted by his emotional outburst as he himself was.

“We know, Jim,” Harvey offered at last, tired and weary. “Nobody here blames you. You simply don’t have any other choice.”

“No, I don’t,” he agreed. “But it shouldn’t be like this.”

“Life is hardly fair, Captain,” Dr. Rosen shrugged philosophically, and to his shame, Jim was actually a bit startled at hearing the forensic expert’s voice — the man had been unusually silent for the whole duration of the meeting.

“I’ll go make the call,” Harper joined in, as diplomatic as always. Before she even got up, however, the door burst open for the second time this day, and revealed the same receptionist, who looked no more composed than earlier. Jim got a feeling he would like what the young man had to say even less.

Steeling himself, the newcomer announced; “Jerome Valeska has escaped!”

Jim groaned and banged his head on the table amidst all the horrified gasps, not bothering to salvage the rest of his reputation at this point. God, perhaps he would’ve been better off becoming a fucking physic or something.


	16. XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys!  
> It’s been brought to my attention that you probably haven’t received a notification for this chapter a little over a day prior, so I’ve deleted it and uploaded anew. Just ignore it if you’ve already read it.

“Let me get this straight,” Jim exhaled slowly, trying and failing not to sound hostile — a futile effort to begin with, since he’d been pacing back and forth in front of his interlocutor for the whole duration of their conversation. “These two new orderlies, both of whom are missing at the moment, were in fact members of Jerome’s Cult who got their positions under unskillfully forged documents, presumably in order to bust their icon out of your institution?”

“Sounds about right,” Dr. Price confirmed lamely, resolutely avoiding Jim’s glare. He jumped at the loud bang which came from the detective’s open palms colliding with the desk, but sadly composed himself rather quickly.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Jim shouted. “You must either be astonishingly incompetent or have done this on purpose! Have they bribed you or something?!”

“Of course not!” The psychiatrist scoffed icily, getting up from his chair now, too. “But in case you haven’t noticed, we’ve ran into a bit of a dearth of personnel as recently as the day before yesterday, not to mention the Strange situation. We had to make due with the already available candidates, just so that _you_ wouldn’t have to deal with a mass breakout on top of everything else. Forgive us if we dared to assume that thorough background check could wait a little in time of crisis.”

“Are you trying to justify your appalling lack of work ethics?! Surely the thought that some of your applicants might be... shady, to put it lightly, must have crossed your mind!”

“And yet we’re having only one escapee instead of dozens!” Came the self-righteous retort. “I’d say it’s a success, all things considered.”

Jim let out a wheezing, mocking laugh. “‘Only one escapee’, you say. It’s Jerome Valeska we’re talking about!”

“And he’s just one man,” the shrink stood his ground. “Valeska’s only strength is his charisma, which allows him to attract numbers to his cause. I hear, though, that he’s got himself two powerful, intelligent foes hellbent on seeing him dead, so I fail to understand the supposed grievance of this situation.”

“Oh, how thoughtful of you to bring it up!” Jim lost it all over again. “Because last time I checked both of them used innocent lives as a bargaining chip for Jerome, dead or alive! And now I have nothing to give them, which means that your mistake is going to cost more than you could ever imagine!”

“I do apologize,” Dr. Price simpered with a cruel glint in his eyes, and Jim couldn’t help but start contemplating his chances at not ending up in Blackgate again — this time for an actual murder. “I haven’t realized GCPD was in the business of negotiating with terrorists. My mistake.”

The arrogant fool would never know how far he’d come to getting himself killed. Thankfully, Jim managed to abort his movement halfway through, hitting the desk again instead of strangling the shrink with his bare hands. Cursing under his breath, he turned on his heels and fled the office, slamming the door shut behind himself.

No one dared to approach him as he stormed down the gloomy Arkham corridors, and it didn’t take him long to first reach the lobby, nearly colliding with a daydreaming guard (honestly, did the past events teach this man nothing!?), and then leave the premises altogether. He even had enough time left to unhurriedly drive back to the precinct and attempt to work for a bit before the end of his career (and countless innocent lives) showed up in the form of Jeremiah Valeska.

Not that Jim had already given up, of course. He knew he had to try to reason with the man, at the very least. He just doubted it would bear any fruit — after all, Jeremiah came across as an absolute paranoiac and wasn’t likely to believe Jim.

Still, trying and failing was better than sitting around doing nothing, right?

Jim certainly believed so, at any rate.

**JVJVJV**

It all went downhill pretty fast, just as Jim’d been dreading it would.

“You know, Captain Gordon, I’ve got this feeling...” Jeremiah offered out of the blue after yet another round of twiddling their thumbs. “Like we are splitting hairs. Just tell me already, are you willing to hand over Jerome — or not? You’ve drawn this out long enough.”

“We don’t have him,” Jim admitted after a lengthy pause, heaving a sigh that sounded close to defeated.

“You don’t have him,” the terrorist parroted mockingly. “And why, pray tell, do you not have him?”

“He’s escaped earlier today.”

“Did he now?” Jeremiah smiled, and his expression alone told Jim everything he needed to know about whether or not innocent lives would still be in danger by the end of it. “How very convenient for him. I wonder, was this miraculous disappearing act performed before or after my little ultimatum?”

Jim shifted uncomfortably. There really was no way to get out of it with no losses, was there?

“After,” he divulged with a heavy heart, knowing that lying would’ve been even more treacherous.

“Of course it was,” Jeremiah smiled wider, cheerful and completely off the rocker, then abruptly sobered up. “And you expect me to believe this? You are a good man, James Gordon, if a bit... relaxed in your moral standing. But not enough to ‘station a premeditated murder’, as you put it. No, certainly not. Well then, allow me to demonstrate what exactly you’ve brought upon yourself with your arrogance and holier-than-thou attitude.”

A detonator — one quite different to the one Jeremiah’d dangled in front of their faces six hours ago, some part of Jim’s brain registered dazedly — was procured seemingly out of thin air. The madman’s expression shifted to that of undisguised maliciousness, and then —

“Wait!” Jim shouted, and was surprised when it actually worked.

“What is it, now? Have you changed your mind all of a sudden?” Jeremiah snapped, his thumb dangerously hovering just above the trigger.

“Please!” Jim begged. “I can’t! I was ready to hand him over, I swear, but then Arkham personnel chose to inform me of his escape. Check for yourself if you don’t believe me, but he’s gone! Two members of his Cult managed to sneak into the asylum under the guise of new employees and snatched him out!” He paused when it appeared as though he managed to get through to his interlocutor, but seeing that same determination settling back into Jeremiah’s features prompted him to go on; “At least punish those actually responsible instead of innocent people who did nothing to deserve your ire!”

He realized too late that it was the wrong thing to say.

“Innocent,” Jeremiah sighed, shaking his head in the same manner a teacher disappointed in their pupil’s incomprehension of some basic concept would. “You’ve been working in the department for what, a decade, more than that? Surely even you must’ve realized by now that there’s no such thing as innocence. People are faulty, flawed creatures by default, and it’s only a matter of time before they demonstrate it. Perhaps I should just detonate all the bombs in one go,” he mused, pulling out the older detonator and seemingly ignoring the horrified gasps his actions caused. “Destroy the city and rebuild it anew, make it better. Besides, chances of Jerome being in the range of one of the explosions are relatively high — certainly better than leaving the problem in your _capable_ hands.”

“No!” Jim cried out, lowering his gun and stepping forward. “You are nothing like your brother, you don’t revel in mindless slaughter and destruction, do you? Please, give us a little bit more time and we’ll bring him to you! Disable the bombs, and I give you my word you won’t face any repercussions for two explosions and whatever you choose to do to Jerome. You’ll be able to get your life back.”

“You give me your word,” Jeremiah repeated. “Tell me, Captain Gordon, how much does _your_ word weigh? How much of a fool do you take me for?”

Jim gulped.

“Nothing to say for yourself?” The madman curled his lips into a smile — a terrible, empty thing reminiscent of his brother’s but somehow even worse. “That’s right, Captain. Your word weighs _nothing_. I knew full well what I was getting into when I shed the confines of my former life, and my decision is unwavering still. The only thing I haven’t accounted for is your appalling incompetency — or lack of common sense. Perhaps you needed further encouragement—“

“No, I don’t!” Jim shook his head, frantic, desperate enough to consider dropping to his knees. “Please, just... tell me what I can do to sway your decision, and it will be done at once.”

“My, you’re a man of malfeasance, aren’t you?” Jeremiah chuckled condescendingly — but he also pulled his finger away from the trigger, and Jim was fine being made fun of so long as it helped to protect innocent lives. “Openly consorting with a terrorist now, and Jerome’s brother at that. What would your former Captain — Essen, was it? — say, I wonder?”

Jim couldn’t hide his flinch, or the tightening of his fists, and neither could he entirely suppress the well of shame and self-loathing that threatened to overcome him at the harsh truth. But he still resolutely stared the madman in the eye, refusing to admit to his weakness.

“She was a brave woman, put her everything into fighting crime, fighting men and women like you,” he answered, voice cold and unwavering. “But she also valued her vow to protect the citizens of Gotham above all else. She would’ve understood what I’m trying to do, would’ve done it herself in my place.”

“But she isn’t, not anymore,” Jeremiah chuckled, then effortlessly sidestepped the bullet fired by someone not possessed of the same self-control as Jim. One of his followers went down with a cry instead, but neither Valeska nor any of the unfortunate person’s comrades batted an eye, swiftly closing ranks right above the vacant spot. “Seems like your people are growing impatient, Captain. My apologies, I didn’t mean to keep you hanging for so long. To be fair, I’m not the only one to blame for this, am I?”

“Jeremiah,” Jim stepped forward again, then immediately wanted to smack himself on the forehead for addressing the dangerous criminal like that, and desperately offered the first words to remedy his mistake that came to mind, “you’re right, I should’ve expected something like this to happen, should’ve upped the security. But Jerome is free now, and all I can do is turn every effort to recapturing him. Please, give us some more time to do that.”

Valeska didn’t deny him outright, instead appearing to be contemplating the offer — which was already better than the alternative. Still, Jim was beside himself with anxiety and tried very hard not to show even an ounce of his inner turmoil.

Not that he held high hopes for his success.

“Alright, Captain,” Jeremiah responded at last. “You’re driving a fetching bargain, I’ve got to admit. There is one moment that needs further negotiating, though; how can I be certain that you’ll keep to your word once my back is turned? After all, your track record speaks for yourself — so I’m sure you understand my concerns.”

Unfortunately, Jim did. He still cringed at the way he dismissed Cobblepot, inadvertently enabling Strange’s inhumane treatment of his patients, both alive and dead, as well as the most recent scare of Jim’s life. But he couldn’t imagine a Valeska accepting his word for it, no, their sort needed something more tangible than words, like—

“Take me!” He cried out even before fully thinking it through — but it was too late to take the offer back now even if he wanted to (which he didn’t). “Take me as your hostage while my people search for your brother. They won’t go back on the deal so long as I’m in your custody.”

Several of his subordinates gasped, horrified, and delved into loud protests, Harvey the loudest of them all. He paid them no heed, though. The only opinion that mattered at the moment was Jeremiah’s — since he was the only one capable of preventing the senseless massacre.

“And take you at my new base of operations?” Jeremiah lifted an elegant brow — his face appeared even more sculptured now, Jim suddenly realized; was it just his shift of perception after the ‘good’ twin had ceased to hide? — pouring a truly impressive amount of condescension in just one gesture. “I think not. On the other hand, I wouldn’t be so adamant about someone else. Say, the fierce warrior who tried to shoot me. I promise my followers and I shall be most hospitable.”

“Do you take me for that much of a fool?” Jim barked incredulously, then quickly went on before his interlocutor could answer, “You’ll just kill them outright, deal or no deal.”

“Of course you’d think so,” Valeska scoffed derisively. “It’s not surprising you’d judge everyone by yourself. No use trying to convince you that I always keep my promises, I see. Never mind, I’ll just keep all the bombs active for now, as a leverage against your foolish attempts to capture me, or hinder _my_ search for Jerome.”

The engineer pocketed one of the detonators, then slowly, theatrically waved his other hand at the amassed officers with an eerie smile. The moment he turned around — not at all bothered by forty odd guns trained on his back — his followers saluted and parted as one, making way for their leader to come through.

The bastard knew that no one would dare act against him so long as he brandished around a dead man’s switch, literally holding hundreds of lives in his palm.

What he didn’t know, however, was that in his arrogance he allowed a crucial piece of information to slip. Jeremiah revealed that his bunker was abandoned now, and Jim would never forgive himself if he passed on an opportunity like this.

**JVJVJV**

_Have you completely lost your mind!? It’s a suicide! We need to regroup, not diminish our forces even further!_

Harvey’s voice kept ringing in Jim’s ears even as he slowly descended down the corridors of Jeremiah’s maze.

_Besides, he told you straight to the face that he’s up and moved out! What can you possibly hope to find there? He is madder than his thrice damned brother, sure, but it doesn’t make him unintelligent. He must’ve packed up everything remotely useful, leaving nothing but bare walls behind! The only thing you’re going to stumble upon is some bloody deathtrap!_

Jim knew how dangerous his hastily thought up plan was, of course — that was why he’d chosen to go in here alone in the first place — but it wasn’t as if they had any alternative options left, other than stepping aside and letting two psychotic sonuvabitches with illusions of grandeur and complete disregard for human life try to tear each other apart unperturbed. His impromptu reconnaissance might’ve been a last ditch effort, but it was necessary.

And if he didn’t come out of this alive — well, his colleagues knew what to do. Half of the police force had already been stationed around the sector where the Carver’d holed up with the hostages by the time Jim left the department, and they would be given the exact coordinates the moment the live feed began.

As to the Valeska menace, well, Jim honestly didn’t feel like he would’ve been that much of help when it came to dealing with those two. Therefore, GCPD would lose basically nothing if he didn’t return.

Immersed in his far from optimistic musings, Jim was surprised to notice a source of light somewhere further down — which, by the looks of it, had been assisting his flashlight for quite some time already. Silently berating himself for his wavering attention in such an environment, he turned off the useless device and went on with as much caution as he could muster.

Thankfully, nothing seemed to have taken advantage of his moment of foolishness, and nothing still befell him on the rest of his way to Jeremiah’s study.

No sooner had Jim crossed the threshold than he stopped dead in his tracks, feeling dread slowly engulfing, suffocating him. He knew now what exactly the source of light was, and he remembered its effects clearly, forever burnt into his eyelids.

He did not expect to find one of generators slash bombs in here of all places. Jeremiah had a certain flair for dramatics, true, but Jim never would’ve thought the engineer capable of wasting one of his precious inventions on a trap meant for a single person.

Perhaps this one hadn’t been converted into an explosive after all?

Almost in a daze, he took a second step forward, then another and another, leaning heavily against Jeremiah’s desk. He perked up at seeing some maps and blueprints sprawled haphazardly on its surface, but before he could try to make sense of any of them, a formerly black screen came to life.

“Snooping around in other people’s business, are you now, Captain?” Jeremiah’s coldly smiling face mocked him. “The tragedy of this situation is that no one would believe me if I told them that you’re casually trespassing on private property.”

“It’s not trespassing if you’ve taken to bloody terrorism, Jeremiah! How else am I supposed to stop you, you raging lunatic!?” Jim snapped, his nerves taut like a violin’s strings.

“Now, now, there’s no need to be rude,” the madman tutted — and for a moment Jim was convinced it were a live feed. “Or, well, I suppose there might be if you feel like it. After all, they say that a person’s true colors are revealed when they’re knocking on death’s door. Feel free to shout abuse all you want if your real self is a pathetic hysterical mess. I promise, no one will witness your disgraceful behavior — this is a recorded message anyway. I’m still out there blowing your simple minds and searching for my disappointment of a brother,” his face contorted with the widening of his smile that held such a profound undertone of cruelty it made Jim... uneasy, to put it lightly. “Speaking of doors—“

With a loud clank the only door — reinforced steel, Jim suspected with no small amount of dread — closed. 

“You remember my self-perpetuating generators, don’t you?” Jeremiah continued, and Jim glanced nervously at the one glowing innocently a few paces behind him. He had a feeling he knew where this was going, but God, did he hope he was wrong. “Oh, of course you do — you’ve witnessed their prowess just a few hours back. I’m sure you realize what a phenomenal amount of energy one such generator can store. Honestly, I’d hate to be within a mile of it if it were to overload.”

As if on clue, the blue device began pulsating, faster and faster, and emitting a rather ominous sound. For a moment lost to the mounting hysterics, Jim threw himself at the door, over and over until he was able to think somewhat rationally again.

In the meantime, Jeremiah — the arrogant, narcissistic bastard — continued to talk, apparently thoroughly enjoying the sound of his own voice, but Jim wasn’t paying attention. A fleeting thought breezed through his mind, and he stumbled back to the engineer’s desk, almost tripping on his own feet in his haste.

Holding his breath, he reached under the table top with his trembling hand — and there, right as he hoped, was a button. He hit it.

The generator turned red, but he had a chance to get out of here now. He glanced back at Jeremiah’s self-assured face, quickly grabbed as many papers as he could and was out just in sync with the sociopath’s cocky “Goodbye!”

Jim was safe.


	17. XIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I haven’t even abandoned y’all for months on end this time around. Impressed yet?

“What’s going on?” was the first sentence that came out of Jim’s mouth as soon as he found his way back to the GCPD — which was no small feat due to the fact he was still reeling from the explosion that happened too close for his liking. He could certainly do with a break to calm his frayed nerves and get rid of the ringing in his ears — oh, and change out of the clothes covered in dust and debris.

Not that Gotham was ready to allow him one, it seemed.

“You’re alive!” Harvey exclaimed in relief, running up to him from where he’d been coordinating the gathered troops in full combat gear and giving him a bear hug. Jim winced — from pain or shock or both — and carefully extracted himself, patting his friend on the back as he did so.

“Uh. Yeah, I am,” he coughed. “But that’s not the priority; what’s happening? I thought you would’ve captured the Carver by now.”

“ _Captured_ my ass,” Harvey grunted derisively. “The bastard managed to get away!”

“What? That’s impossible!” Jim exclaimed, fully believing in the truth of it. They’d gone over the strategy countless times, not leaving anything up to chance. The sheer numbers of the policemen involved would’ve rendered the serial killer incapable of slipping away, superior intellect or not. “How—“

“We don’t know, right? He shouldn’t have been able to do much of anything, but escaped anyway, leaving no trace behind despite being in a hurry!” Harvey paused, a thoughtful frown appearing on his face. “Or she. Some of the hostages believe they were abducted by a woman.”

“At least you saved them,” Jim offered in consolation, filing the other information away for later.

“Yeah, all but one,” Harvey confirmed bitterly, a hostage’s death seemingly weighing heavily on his heart. Not that Jim himself was any different, despite not even being there in the first place.

Quite the opposite, actually. The fact that he’d been elsewhere, accomplishing nothing of import, while his comrades were risking their lives to capture a dangerous criminal and save innocents, only added to his displeasure with himself.

With a bit of effort Jim shook off the guilt and returned to the present, demanding, “Where are you heading in that case?”

“Bloody Valeskas have somehow managed to find each other, and now they’re recreating a _Smokin’ Aces_ scene. Literally,” Harvey grunted, then turned around and got back to boosting the troops’ morale, apparently done talking to Jim now that his relative physical health was indisputable.

Jim let him for a few moments, his brain still sluggish from the explosion, before the realization dawned upon him.

“Wait!” He exclaimed, rushing to where the gathered crowd was about ready to head out. “You can’t! What about the deal we’ve struck with Jeremiah? About him not detonating the bombs so long as we don’t stop him from killing Jerome?”

The officers within the earshot grew agitated. Most of them had families they weren’t willing to risk even for capturing such notorious threats to Gotham’s semblance of peace as the Valeska brothers.

Harvey, however, didn’t appear to be deterred in the slightest. “The deal?” He asked, then went on without waiting for a reply, “The deal was off the moment the bunker blew up. The best we can do for Gothamites right now is capture the bastard while he’s too busy to follow up on his threat.”

Jim felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

“But he doesn’t know it was me, does he?” He protested, though his heart wasn’t behind it. “He doesn’t have any reason to activate the explosions unless we barge in on his fight with Jerome.”

“He does,” Harvey denied, disgruntled. “The witnesses reported him boasting about your assassination to Jerome. The son of a bitch even used it to poach a handful of his brother’s followers right in the middle of all the shooting.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m still alive,” Jim chuckled, a bit strained. He didn’t want to think about the implications of Jeremiah’s certainty, so he resolutely pushed the mounting suspicion out of his mind. “I’m coming with you. Hopefully my presence would disrupt his followers just enough for us to gain an upper hand.”

Harvey eyed him dubiously, gaze lingering on the side of his head where a bloodied gash had barely scabbed over, but didn’t protest. Not that Jim would’ve listened to his friend even if he did.

They quickly climbed into the awaiting vehicles after that.

**JVJVJV**

The sounds of the ruckus could be already heard a couple of blocks away, which did not bode well. For the life of him, though, Jim wasn’t able to identify what was causing them exactly, even if it felt like the answer was on the tip of his tongue.

And then the truck turned around the corner and came to a screeching halt, barely avoiding a large chunk of _burning concrete_.

The building in front of the quickly disembarking policemen looked on the verge of collapsing. It no doubt used to be something classy, Jim could tell as much just from a passing glance at the partially inflamed ruins, but he had far more pressing concerns than urban design at the moment — like _staying the fuck alive_. Of course, entering the scene largely undetected was too much to ask for, and no sooner had the task force showed up than Jerome’s followers raised hell on them with what appeared to be a small country’s entire arsenal.

Crouching down behind an overturned truck, Jim belatedly realized that perhaps they’d been bullheaded in regards to planning out this particular operation. Harvey’s grime-smeared face next to his reflected the same dawning understanding.

“C’mon, c’mon, line her up!” Jerome’s exuberant, manic voice somehow rang over all the havoc, followed by the sound of something heavy being moved. “Load up!”

A cold shiver ran down Jim’s spine, and he risked a peek over the smoking tire, staring straight into the hungry maw of the bloody _cannon_ responsible for dilapidating an entire building. “ _Everyone back_!” He shouted at the top of his lungs, diving back off, but he wasn’t fast enough.

The vehicle that seemed to be such a great cover mere moments ago erupted in flames, taking several policemen with it and showering the rest in debris. 

_At least Harvey is unharmed_ , he sighed in relief. It wasn’t much, and he felt every death as though it were his own, but he wouldn’t have been able to cope at all if his best friend was gone as well.

“You sick fuck!” Harvey screamed in anguish, straightening amidst all the chaos and taking aim at the hysterically laughing psychopath, but fell back, his right shoulder blossoming red, before he could shoot.

The bullet came from the burning building.

“Now, now,” a calm voice, so similar yet so different to Jerome’s, resonated through the street. Jeremiah Valeska emerged, looking no worse for wear despite having been under the attack. Curiously, not one of Jerome’s followers so much as attempted to shoot the bastard. “I’d advise you not to raise your weapons against _my_ brother, no matter how much it must pain you to refrain from doing so. I assure you, the pain shall be much worse if you fail to heed my warning.”

“Broski!” Jerome exclaimed, dissolving into gleeful cackles. “What is it, ya _caring_?”

“Playing foolish doesn’t suit you,” Jeremiah huffed, shooting an officer brave enough to try to end him in a moment of distraction without missing a beat. Jim winced.

“Of course,” Jerome agreed ruefully, ruffling his disheveled hair with the barrel of his gun, “only _Mommy’s Precious Golden Boy_ is allowed to take the unwanted freak’s life, right?”

He wasn’t smiling anymore, Jim noticed. Instead he was intently staring at his brother, eyes full of both loathing and longing in equal measure.

“Glad that you understand that,” Jeremiah smiled blandly and pulled the gun on his twin, not even a flicker of hesitance or doubt on his picturesque face. Jim held his breath, knowing that he _should_ intervene — because it was _the right thing to do_ — but unable to bring himself to.

And of course, just as he thought that a stray bullet disrupted the pile of rubbish he was hiding behind, revealing his crouched form to both madmen and their respective... entourages.

If the situation wasn’t so dire Jim would’ve cracked an accomplished smile at the completely flabbergasted expression on Jeremiah’s face, but as it was, he just gulped, unable to utter a single word despite having spent the whole ride over debating what exactly he was going to tell the man who’d taken pride in killing Jim.

Jerome, it seemed, had no such qualms.

“Jeez, lil’ brother,” he wheezed in between bouts of rumbustious laughter, nearly bending in half under the weight of his amusement. “Can’t ya do _anything_ yerself?”

“As if you’re any better!” Jeremiah snapped, methodically shooting down three of his own followers — formerly Jerome’s, judging by their more colorful appearance — as though daring the rest to take advantage of his mishap. No one took their chances, of course — a smart decision in light of Jeremiah’s vicious, completely unhinged scowl.

“To be fair, I haven’t really been tryin’ to. Dunno where you’ve gotten this idea from,” Jerome shrugged, completely unconcerned with his brother unraveling just a few paces before him. The lunatic hadn’t even lifted his own weapon — though Jim knew from experience how fast he really could be when the situation called for it.

“Oh, you don’t?” Jeremiah smirked with the air of someone coming out of a casino after a truly horrific winning streak. “Allow me to educate you then.”

“By all means,” Jerome half-bowed with a flourish, his face an image of indulgence that looked almost _fond_. It was as though he’d forgotten all about their audience, Jim included, or the fact that he’d been trying to kill his brother mere minutes before. And Jeremiah, for that matter, too had eyes only for Jerome.

Not that they couldn’t afford it, of course — both cultist cells diligently protected their icons from all harm, be it a stray bullet or a particularly determined policeman. Jim would’ve ordered his people to desist for now if he weren’t attracting the madmen’s attention back to himself by doing so.

No, he couldn’t risk it. Not now that he was in a perfect position to witness something instrumental to stopping Valeskas once and for all.

Or for a while, at least.

“Well, let’s see,” Jeremiah began, frowning a bit in mock contemplation, his free hand sneaking into the folds of his purple trench coat and producing... the all too familiar diary. _Jerome’s_ diary.

Jerome, of course, noticed it as well. “I wonder how ya could’ve possibly gotten yer hands on that, baby bro,” he said, thrice as cheery and manic as he usually was in the face of what undoubtedly must’ve been an unpleasant revelation. “I wasn’t dead this time, so them giving it to ya freely as my next of kin is out. Bribery? _Or_ ,” he paused, visibly savoring what he was about to disclose, “perhaps ya remembered a coupla tricks from our childhood!”

Jeremiah stiffened his jaw and clenched his fists, seemingly unmindful of the sharp ridges of the gun cutting into one of his palms, and stepped forward.

“Ah, not so fast!” Jerome sing-songed, dragging out the vowel. “My, are you perhaps _ashamed_ of what you — _we_ — had been forced to do to sustain ourselves whilst in the _tender care_ of our neglectful, abusive, drunken whore of a mother? You shouldn’t be. After all, it’s only a crime if you’re caught. A good thief never faces prosecution, and you were an excellent one. Though we gotta admit, it wasn’t that hard to avoid suspicion when I was always the one blamed for everything that went wrong in the goddamned circus — sometimes even several things that happened _at the same time_!” He shouted, going from cheerful to volatile in the span of seconds, then back again, no trace of instability to be found in his face or posture. “Jeez, I wonder how you got by without this convenient scapegoat, always there in your back pocket when needed and discarded when not, devoted like a bloody puppy — and stupid, too, ‘cuz ya told all sorts of tales ‘bout me, abused me, and all the while I kept comin’ back for more, believin’ it to be _love_! As if you were ever capable of such a thing! What a joke!”

He cackled, wet and raw and _agonizing_ , and in that moment Jim believed every accusation coming out of the known liar’s mouth. _No one can act like this_ , he thought.

“You’re delusional,” Jeremiah huffed, completely unmoved by such an open display of frizzling emotion — and that in itself spoke against him louder than any words could.

“Oh, ya think?” Jerome chuckled, back to his usual self once again. Jim kept watching them like a tennis match. “Figured it all out, have ya? From obsessing over _my boyish diary_.”

“How thoughtful of you to bring this... compendium of insane ramblings up, _brother_. I believe we were in the middle of something before your despairingly embarrassing moment.”

Jerome made an inviting gesture, as if to say ‘go ahead’, and Jeremiah was eager do deliver.

He opened the hardcovered book, quickly paging through the first few entries and glowing in satisfaction when he found what he’d been looking for.

“I am a bird with clipped wings,” he read out loud with mock solemnity, “meant to soar to great heights, but forced to crawl through the mud by the thoughtless cruelty of one man. The man is called James Gordon, a Sergeant for Gotham PD—“

“Ah!” Jerome exclaimed, performing a short mime act ‘Isaac Newton under an apple-tree’ — to the great delight of his followers — with the practiced ease of someone who grew up surrounded by circus performers. “Mighty kind of ya to bring up some shit I wrote duped outta my mind by those Arkham fuckers who considered me a psychopath. Guess they just hadn’t encountered a _real_ one, huh?”

Of course, the elder twin’s pointed look went largely ignored by its recipient — or so Jim thought. “Come now,” Jeremiah admonished with no small amount of amused condescension seeping into his otherwise emotionless voice. “We both know they were right. Psychopathology on such a large scale cannot be acquired. Only inborn. And this,” he shook the diary to empathize his words, “is the proof of that. Can you honestly say that performing the Scandinavian blood eagle execution on a person, just so that you could pull out and _clip_ their ‘wings’ like they supposedly did to you, might be found in any way _sane_? You’re a short-sighted psychopath with an insatiable flair for dramatics, Jerome. Face it.”

“Ya wanna talk dramatics now, brother?” Jerome chuckled, wholly unconcerned by the horrific image his idle fantasy presented. “Lemme guess, ya woulda just ‘efficiently disposed’ of someone instead of wasting yer time and effort on such an elaborate execution, wouldn’t ya? Newsflash, Golden Boy, _you failed_. All because of your overwhelming arrogance and _your_ flair for dramatics. I’m willing to bet that ya set up a trap, locked Gordon in one of the rooms — that fancy office of yours, probably, the one with all those cameras that’d make any paranoid stalker salivate — and gave him enough time to figure out the means to a successful escape ‘cuz you couldn’t resist playin’ out some stupid villain monologue. Didn’tcha, ya overconfident prick? And here them circus folk all thought ya were the smart one.”

Jeremiah visibly clenched his jaw. “Perhaps,” he conceded, “ _perhaps_ I underestimated our dear Captain Gordon a bit. It’s no matter, though. This can be rectified in no time.”

“Aww, what was it?” Jerome crooned, cackling gleefully. “Did ya just admit I was right? Ya shouldn’t have, baby bro! I already knew! And do be careful now, honey, ya hear me? You’re veering dangerously close to complimenting my intelligence here. I’m not sure I can handle you getting all appreciative and affectionate. It’s probably gonna drive me mad — eh, madder.”

“Truly?” Jeremiah quirked a brow, one corner of his mouth curling in what looked suspiciously close to a half-smile. “I wish I found out earlier that all I had to do to bring you to your knees was paying you a compliment.”

Jerome gasped, scandalized. “Ya coming onto me?!” He exclaimed. “Jeez, I know I’m handsome, but we are _brothers_! Ya dare kiss yer mother with that mouth?”

“Necrophilia is not among my vices,” Jeremiah retorted nonchalantly without missing a bit — and Jerome dissolved into a peal of hysterical laughter so violent he actually appeared to lose his balance for a moment.

Coincidentally, it also timed up perfectly with someone’s lucky shot that nearly grazed his ginger locks.

Everyone fell silent. And just like that, the unexpected moment of... camaraderie between the two Valeskas came to an end, and both cult leaders with their respective flocks focused their whole attention on eliminating as many policemen as possible.

Jim lost himself in the shooting — or trying his damndest to stay alive and save whoever he could from the horde of bloody lunatics. He hadn’t even realized that Jerome, the slippery bastard, was gone, his crazy followers either absent too or littering the ground. He stood off against Jeremiah — whose irritatingly immaculate facade was finally broken — his firearm trained on the madman.

“If I’m not back by sunset,” his enemy drawled with the arrogance of someone who held all the cards, licking blood that wasn’t his own from his lips, “Ecco will detonate all the explosives.”

Jim’s hand lowered of its own volition. No, he wasn’t willing to risk that — no matter how his insides twisted at the sight of the psychopath calmly walking off, the remaining cultists dutifully trailing behind his self-assured form.

The long day’s events could be described as nothing but disaster. All that was good and right and just had been crushed under the evil’s heel.

Frankly, Jim had never felt more defeated than in this very moment.

**JVJVJV**

The following weeks only further added to Jim’s weariness. They were losing ground with each passing day, there was no doubt about that. Always several steps behind the two psychos who, it seemed, had turned Gotham in their personal playground.

And were apparently having the time of their life at that.

With the passage of time Jim’s previously barely formed suspicions grew to the point of certainty. Jeremiah and Jerome didn’t truly want to see each other dead, no matter what they (or Jeremiah in particular) deluded themselves into thinking.

No, Jeremiah wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he did succeed. That’s why other criminals and law enforcement alike knew that Jerome was off-limits for any of them. That’s why Jeremiah always allowed his brother to come out of their _encounters_ alive, even if at times by the skin of his teeth.

Perhaps the younger twin was still doing it subconsciously, perhaps he’d already manned up and admitted — if only privately — to the truth. It mattered not. Jim needed to do something, and fast, before it occurred to the nutcases that working together could be just as fun as against each other.

Maybe more so, since both had been caught staring longingly at the other on quite a number of occasions. They longed for a family, a _true_ family — and each had a perfect candidate for that within reach. It was only a matter of time before they reconciled, and then all would be lost. They were formidable, frightening even when separated. Gotham would surely perish under their combined assault.

And yet Jim’s hands were tied, because his whole department — with all the not unintelligent officers and the techs — was no closer to figuring out how to disable the bombs, or even where they all were, than they had been back when the threat first presented itself a little over two weeks ago. Two weeks constructed of sleepless nights, poorly brewed coffee and fruitless chases all over the city, mostly for the damage control purposes.

Two members of the bomb squad had already been lost in such short a time, and who knew how many explosives remained.

Jim needed a fool-proof plan. There was no room for even the smallest of mistakes. He needed to act swiftly and in such a way that couldn’t possibly be thwarted — or blown up in their faces, literally. He only got one shot at this.

Deep in thought, he wasn’t looking where he was going — it wasn’t as if he could’ve gotten lost in his own department anyway — which of course resulted in a rather sudden collision with someone just as distracted as he was. An apology was on the tip of his tongue, but no sooner had Jim lifted his head than the words got stuck in his throat, unable to penetrate the thick clog of dread.

It was Harvey.

Jim would never have imagined being unhappy to see his dearest friend, but it became an unpleasant reality these days. They had been at odds with each other ever since the worst day in Jim’s career; while Jim himself, along with the entirety of GCPD, concentrated on the twin menace, Harvey was utterly obsessed with the serial killer.

It was probably guilt eating away at him for not saving the child — Hope Sanders, 14 years old, ward of the state — but while Jim understood that, he couldn’t help being cross with Harvey for not focusing on their number one priority, bloody Valeskas, and for venting about the Carver to anyone in sight on top of that.

_If you cannot handle your goddamned job, then at least let others do theirs unperturbed_ , Jim thought with no small amount of irritation. Harvey was perceptive enough to pick up on that, of course, but chose to ignore the unspoken message as he tended to these days.

“Harvey,” Jim cut in mid-rant, exasperated, “why can’t you just accept that whoever it is has stopped — for now at least? I’m sure they’ll resurface once Jerome is in custody, but at the moment we have bigger problems at hand—“

“ _Stopped_?” Harvey spat with no small amount of derision. “That’s impossible!”

“Why? Jerome is out and about now. Our serial killer can’t force us to finish him off if we don’t have him. They wouldn’t achieve anything by carrying on, and they’re intelligent enough to comprehend this simple truth if nothing else.”

“No, you don’t get it,” his friend growled, too agitated to pay attention to the gathering officers keen on eavesdropping. “He shouldn’t be able to just stop, he can’t. Back when he just started, sure, but now he is addicted to it. He must continue his spree, but there’s no new bodies found for the past three weeks, excluding... well,” he grimaced, no doubt envisioning poor Hope Sanders, her brain scattered all over the abandoned factory’s floor.

“What if they are dead then?”

“What?!”

“Seeing as we don’t have any suspects, we have no way of knowing if one of the people Jerome had killed personally was in fact our perp,” Jim explained, choosing not to add how unlikely he found such an outcome, considering the fact that Jerome had all but admitted to being fascinated with whoever it was last time Jim visited him in Arkham.

“Do you truly believe he succeeded where we did not in such short a time? That’s just ridiculous. He isn’t that smart,” Harvey scoffed. Again, Jim opted against disclosing his own observations regarding the eldest remaining Valeska’s intelligence and craftiness.

“Fair point,” he said instead. “Jeremiah then? His explosions took more than hundred lives, and some of the victims aren’t even identified yet. Besides, unlike his brother he’s had plenty of time to find the killer and make sure they wouldn’t interfere with his crusade. After all, you know how he is when it comes to those challenging him in his pursuit of Jerome.”

Everyone in the earshot shuddered, remembering the absolutely horrifying example Jeremiah had made of a criminal who had been stupid enough to put a bounty on Jerome’s head _after_ the younger twin’s warning.

What was important, though, was that the words had the desired effect on Harvey as well. Encouraged, Jim went to press on his advantage with newfound energy.

“And he looked so sure of himself at all times, adamantly refusing our protection as though it amounted to nothing — quite unlike his previous choice,” he added meaningfully. “I thought he didn’t trust us after what happened last time, or maybe wasn’t afraid of some faceless serial killer — only of Jerome. Then he showed us his true colors, and I assumed he would’ve taken his chances with the Carver if it meant zero risk of someone accidentally figuring out what he’d been up to. But now that I think of it, there could have been more to it than that. He could’ve easily known who the Carver was from pretty much the start. It all adds up now, doesn’t it?”

“Perhaps,” Harvey conceded. “Still, why would Jeremiah keep silent if he got rid of the fucker? He could’ve used the fact to his advantage — to compensate for his failure to kill you if nothing else. It would’ve badly reflected on our image if it became common knowledge that a criminal easily accomplished something we’d been unable to do for so long.”

“Well,” Jim began, pausing to ponder on the question. “As you said, the Carver wouldn’t have just stopped of their own volition. Perhaps they decided to take the matter in their own hands after we lost Jerome. And if Jerome killed them without knowing who it was, Jeremiah would’ve hardly disclosed the identity of one of his brother’s victims.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Harvey frowned. “Jeremiah wouldn’t have risked the Carver killing Jerome if he knew who it was — the bastard would’ve made sure there was no way for his brother to be offed by a stranger’s hand. After all, he doesn’t tend to put his faith into chances; he carefully plans his insane schemes in advance and follows through only when prepared for as many possible fallouts as he can conjure up in that sick mind of his.”

Jim made to answer but paused, suddenly caught up in the feeling that he’d forgotten something important, crucial even. He replayed Harvey’s words in his head once, then twice, hoping to figure out what it was that had tipped him off.

“Of course!” He exclaimed, barely resisting the urge to smack himself in the forehead for such an atrocious mistake. It earned him a few incredulous stares, but Jim didn’t care, too busy wracking his brain for where he’d put the schematics from Jeremiah’s bunker and forgotten all about them for over two weeks. He dumped them _before_ following his colleagues to the fight, didn’t he?

“Of course!” He repeated, even louder this time, and hurried back where he’d just been heading from. Perhaps they did have a chance against the lunatic after all.


End file.
